Waiting to Exhale

Also by Terry McMillan

Mama Disappearing Acts Breaking Ice: An Anthology of Contemporary African-American Fiction (editor) How Stella Got Her Groove Back A Day Late and a Dollar Short

TERRY McMILLAN

Waiting to Exhale

A SIGNET BOOK

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Waiting to Exhale A NAL Book / published by arrangement with the author All rights reserved. Copyright © 2005 by The NAL Publishing Group. This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability. For information address: The NAL Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com ISBN: 0-7865-6131-9 A NAL BOOK® NAL Books first published by NAL Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. NAL and the "NAL" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc. Electronic edition: December 2005

This one’s for you, Daddy Edward Lewis McMillan, 1929–68

If there was any other way . . . Don’t you think I’ve tried to find it . . . “(If There Was) Any Other Way” (P. Bliss) —Celine Dion

Acknowledgments

I’m indebted to quite a few folks who hung in there with me during the writing of this book. I can’t thank my best girlfriend in the world—Doris Jean Austin—enough, for being hard on me, giving me solid criticism. I still have to mail back a million of her paper clips. I’m grateful to Monica Stewart-Ferris, my brand-new neighbor, who stopped painting to read it; my sister, Crystal Joseph, who told me she loved it (but she’s my sister). I have to thank Blanche Richardson, the owner of Marcus Bookstores in Oakland and San Francisco, who kept rushing me, calling after every hundred pages to see “what happened next.” My girl, Rasheedah Ali, who gave me constant pep talks when I got scared; Gilda Adams, for saving me in Tucson; and Terence Pugh for “hooking up” my hair. And I’m grateful to my legal buddies, Oliver Jones and Janis Wiggins, for all their advice. I’d also like to thank Fletcher Diggins, for being my friend for forty years; Charles “Box” Smith, a real-life victim of Alzheimer’s. I’m forever grateful to my agent, Molly Friedrich, for her continued faith in my work; my editor, Dawn Seferian, for relentlessly being in my corner, but mostly for her patience. And last but not least, I want to thank my son, Solomon, for trying so hard not to disturb Mommy while she sat in front of her computer for months. I’m all yours.

The Women Savannah Jackson Bernadine Harris Robin Stokes Gloria Matthews

Contents

Not Dick Clark Suddenly Single Forget What I Just Said Unanswered Prayers Fire Fat Interstate Lust Discovery Venus in Virgo Happy Hour Freedom of Expression Steam Control It Ain’t About Nothin’ BWOTM Why Are You Here? Rebounding

1 26 42 65 88 105 116 134 153 173 196 209 230 249 261 271 283

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Killing Time New Territory Closer to the Bone Drunk Monsoon To Heaven and Back Still Waves in It Unreasonable Requests Friendship The Weight of All Things Back to Life

292 310 325 337 357 376 399 411 418 422 425

Not Dick Clark

R

ight now I’m supposed to be all geeked up because I’m getting ready for a New Year’s Eve party that some guy named Lionel invited me to. Sheila, my baby sister, insisted on giving me his phone number because he lives here in Denver and her simple-ass husband played basketball with him eleven years ago at the University of Washington, and since I’m still single (which is downright pitiful to her, considering I’m the oldest of four kids and the only one who has yet to say “I do”), she’s worried about me. She and Mama both think I’m out here dying of loneliness, which is not true. I mean, I have my days and I have my nights, but I haven’t gotten to the point where I’ll take whatever I can get. There’s a big difference between being thirsty and being dehydrated. But Sheila and Mama have always thought that something was better than nothing, and look where it’s gotten them. Mama, who thinks she’s an expert on everything, hasn’t had a whole man in her life for seventeen years, and if I knew where my daddy was, I’d probably kill him for making her such a bitter woman. He broke her heart, and she’s never recovered. And Sheila? She files for divorce on an annual basis and calls me collect from some cheap motel where she and the kids are hiding out until she can serve the papers on Paul. I listen to her whine for hours about how sick she is of him and that there’s nothing he can do or say 1

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that would make her go back this time. But then, like a fool, she turns right around and calls him up, repeats her long list of needs that aren’t being met, and he promises to give her anything she wants. She refuses to believe him, so he begs on a daily basis for two weeks, and by then he’s convinced her that he means it, so she gives in and goes on back home. I rarely hear from her while they’re “honeymooning,” except maybe a three-minute synopsis of how hunky-dory everything is now, and because he’s given her permission to go ahead and rip out the old carpet or buy some new dining room furniture, she’s watching her money, which is why she can’t talk long. One of my brothers is in prison for doing some stupid shit, passing counterfeit money, but he’s not a criminal; and the other one’s a lifer in the Marine Corps. So as far as taking advice from any of them goes, I’m skeptical. The deal is, the men are dead in Denver. Which is only one reason why I’m leaving. I’m tired of this altitude, all this damn snow, and this obsession with the Denver Broncos. For the last three years, my life has felt inconsequential, like nobody really gives a shit what I’m doing or how well I do it. From the outside, everything looks good: I’ve got a decent job, money in the bank, live in a nice condo, and drive a respectable car. I’ve got everything I need except a man. And I’m not one of these women who think that a man is the answer to everything, but I’m tired of being by myself. Being single isn’t half as much fun as it used to be. Ever since I broke up with Kenneth, I haven’t even come close to being in love, and that was almost four years ago, when I lived in Boston. I miss that feeling, and I want it back. But I’m also not the type to sit around and wait for too much of anything. If I want something to happen, I know I have to make it happen. And as hard as I’ve tried, nothing unforgettable has happened to me since I’ve been in Denver, which is why I’m getting the hell out of here. My baby sister has also never appreciated or understood taking real risks, so she wasn’t all that thrilled when I called

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her two weeks ago to tell her I was moving to Phoenix. “Why would anybody in their right mind want to live in Arizona?” she asked me. “Are there any black folks out there? And isn’t that where that governor rescinded the King holiday after it had already been passed?” I had to remind her that my best friend, Bernadine—the girl who was my roommate in college, the girl whose wedding I drove sixty miles in a snowstorm to get to because I was her bridesmaid— lives in Scottsdale. She’s been black all her life, and she seems to like it there. And as far as the King holiday goes, all I could say was that I’d be one of the first people at the polls when the time came. Bernadine had talked me into coming out there to spend my birthday, which I had to remind Sheila was October 14 and not the twenty-second, which was the day I got her card. She damn near has a stroke if hers is late. Anyway, I couldn’t believe how pretty and warm and cheap it was to live there. We went to this Urban League affair, and I got to talking to one of Bernadine’s husband’s friends, and he told me about this opening in the publicity department at one of the local TV stations, so I applied, and after flying back and forth for three different interviews, I had just found out that I got the job, and hell, it’s a welcome change from the gas company, and plenty of opportunities to advance. What I didn’t tell her was that I was taking a twelve-thousanddollar-a-year pay cut, which probably would’ve sent her soaring through the roof, because I’m the one who’s basically been supporting Mama for the past three years while everybody else just watched. Mama gets a whopping $407 a month from Social Security and $104 worth of food stamps, but who the hell can live off of that? She lives in a Section Eight apartment, I pay her portion of the rent and send her a few extra dollars a month so she can at least go to a movie, but all she does is spend it in thrift shops or put furniture on layaway that’ll take years to get out. If my condo doesn’t sell, I’ll be up shit’s creek. I’ll be cutting it close as it is, but

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I’m hoping it won’t take me that long to get into producing, which is what I really want to do. Sheila’s got three kids, doesn’t work, and has never lived anywhere except Pittsburgh. “This’ll make the fourth city you’ve lived in in fifteen years. I can’t keep track, Savannah. When are you gonna be still long enough to settle down?” All I could say was, “When I find what I’m looking for.” I didn’t feel like telling her for the umpteenth time what it was, because she doesn’t understand it: peace of mind; a place I can call home; feeling important to somebody; and just trying to live a meaningful, significant, and positive life. Of course she didn’t bother asking this time. But Sheila did manage to remind me for the zillionth time that I’m running out of time, because here I am all of thirtysix years old without so much as a prospect in sight; and on top of that, she said that my swinging-singles lifestyle doesn’t amount to shit, that I run the gamut when it comes to stereotypes of buppiedom because I put too much energy into my career, that without a husband and children my life really has no meaning, that I’m traversing down that road less traveled, and that by now I should’ve been divorced at least once and be the mother of at least 2.5 children. Sheila said I’m too choosy, that my standards are too high, and because they seem to be non-negotiable, she swears up and down that if I don’t loosen up, the only person who’ll ever meet my qualifications is God. I love her to death, but I swear, she gets on my last nerve. It was right after Thanksgiving when she called to tell me about this Lionel. I had just finished hanging a painting I’d bought by Charles Alston: a watercolor of a black man and woman jitterbugging in the 1940s. It took me six months to pay for it, and I was so excited to finally have it on my wall that I was standing there grinning at it when the phone rang. I sat down at the dining room table and looked out the window. It was snowing again, but it was beautiful. I swear,

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sometimes it feels like heaven up here. I live on the twentythird floor and have a 180-degree view of the Rockies and downtown Denver, which is right downstairs. I lit a cigarette and rested my elbows on the glass tabletop. “So how old is he?” I asked. “Forty-one,” she said. “Forty-one? That old?” “Forty-one is not old, Savannah. You’re almost forty, so be quiet.” “Look, Sheila. I’ve been out with enough of these overforty-year-olds to last me awhile. Most of them come in five minutes, are out of shape, sound like they’re your daddy, or so set in their ways they act like old ladies. And personally, I can’t be bothered.” “You’re starting to sound like your mama.” I resented that shit, but Sheila doesn’t know what kind of men I’ve been dealing with since I left Boston, and I didn’t feel like telling her. She’s accused me of judging them too fast, but hell, I know what I like and don’t like, and it doesn’t take that long for me to tell if there’s any chemistry at work or not. I’ve met a whole lot of educated, successful, handsome black men who don’t turn me on. Riffraff comes in all kinds of packages. “So,” I said, and took a long drag from my cigarette, “what’s wrong with him?” “Nothing is wrong with him.” “If he’s forty-one years old and still single, something’s gotta be wrong with him.” “He’s divorced.” “How long?” “Paul said four years. He’s got his own business.” “And what exactly is his line of business?” “He sells fire trucks.” “He sells what?” “You heard me: fire trucks.” “Wow, how exciting.” “Don’t be cynical, Savannah.”

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“I’m not being cynical.” “Anyway, he owns his own home and even has some rental property.” “Did I ask you for his résumé?” “No. Which is why I’m giving it to you. You never seem to find out that a man doesn’t have anything going for him except what’s between his legs, but by then it’s always too late.” I didn’t even feel like responding to that because Sheila doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. I think she ran a TRW on Paul before she married him because as far as she’s concerned, if a man doesn’t have good credit and isn’t making six figures, then he’s not worth your time and energy. “And just what does this prize look like?” I asked. “Would you stop being so sarcastic! According to this picture, he’s handsome.” “How old is the picture, Sheila?” “I don’t know. Ten years, maybe.” “Ten years can destroy anything.” “Well, let me say this. Paul said he runs five miles a day, restores vintage cars, drives a jeep, has a college education, is six one, and that’s all I know.” I had to admit that my curiosity was sparked a tad, but I knew enough not to get excited. I’m tired of getting pumped up for nothing. But I called him. And he wasn’t home. So I left a message on his machine. He had a civilized voice and Grover Washington playing in the background. I like Grover Washington. We played machine tag for three weeks. As the media representative for the gas company, I travel off and on, and Lionel told my machine that he’d been traveling too, trying to secure more backing for some new business ventures he was trying to launch. Well, at least he’s industrious, I thought. And then a few days after yet another solo and boring Christmas, I came in from work and there were two messages on the machine. One was from Mama, asking if I could please Federal Express her ninety-five dollars so she

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could take some crocheting class and pay her light bill, which was past due, and the other was from Lionel. He said that he and some of his racquetball buddies were throwing a New Year’s Eve party at some spiffy hotel and that I should come. So it wasn’t like I had a date. But what I did have was something to do. It was better than sitting in this apartment with my cat on my lap, purring. I haven’t purred since I met Fred, but that only lasted a week, because the wife he forgot he had came back from a business trip. But hell, that was three months ago. Wouldn’t it be ironic if this Lionel Playworld turned out to be Mr. Right? Just because I’m moving. I just hope he’s socialized, moderately charming, halfway articulate, and doesn’t spend half the night trying to convince me how he got to be so goddamn wonderful. What I do know is this: If my mind wanders when he talks, or if what he has to say sounds like some more superficial rehearsed bullshit, I’ll do my best to be as gracious as I can and shine him on. One way I can always tell if I’m at least interested on a primal level is if I find myself wondering how he looks without any clothes on and imagining how good he is in bed. But. If I don’t even entertain the thought, it means he’s not generating any heat. And no heat means no interest. I had just gotten out of the shower when the phone rang. I was hoping it’d be him, calling to make sure I was coming. I answered the phone in the voice I use at work. “Hello,” I said. “Savannah?” Mama asked, like she was expecting somebody else to answer my phone. I pulled up the antenna and immediately went to find my cigarettes. “Yes, it’s me, Mama. How you doing?” “I’m fine. Thanks for the money. The lights didn’t get cut off, and that class is too hard. Seems like I got new stitches

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to learn every night, and with Sheila and the kids being here, I can’t hardly get to it.” “Sheila’s staying with you?” “Yeah. I thought you knew. Don’t tell her I told you. She claims this time she’s divorcing him for real. But I don’t pay no attention to that girl. She don’t know whether she’s coming or going. I think she’s one step away from a nervous breakdown.” “Mama, you say that every time she leaves.” “Well, he’s been calling, and they’ve been talking. She’ll be home in a minute, mark my words. Anyway, I hope you’re not sitting in that apartment tonight of all nights.” “I’m not, Mama.” “Good. Are you going to a party?” “Yes.” “What you wearing?” “Why, Mama?” “I just hope it’s something sexy and not any of those office getups you’ve got a closet full of.” “Mama, what difference does it make what I’m wearing? You’re two thousand miles away, and I don’t exactly need your approval, now do I?” “Look, you don’t have to tell me where I live. And no, you don’t need my approval for anything, but I’m still your mother, so watch the tone of your voice. You didn’t answer my question.” “I’m wearing a skin-tight dress with the back cut down to my behind and the front slit almost to my navel. How’s that sound?” “Good. Just wear a warm coat. Do you have a date?” “Sort of.” “Either you do or you don’t—which is it?” “No, but I was invited out.” “Male or female?” “Male, Mama.” “Then why ain’t you going with him?”

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“Mama, it’s a long story, and look, I’m trying to get dressed. What are you doing tonight?” “Staying home. It’s too much violence going on to be out on New Year’s for me, so me and Sheila’s cooking some black-eyed peas and chitterlings for tomorrow, and the kids rented some videos and they’re making popcorn balls.” “Well, tell everybody Happy New Year for me.” “Wait a minute! Don’t hang up yet! Do me a favor.” “What’s that, Mama?” “Try not to swear.” “I won’t, Mama. And give me some credit. I don’t use the same kind of language around men that I do when I’m with my girlfriends—at least not until I get to know him better.” “You still smoking?” “Every once in a while,” I said. “Well, if you have to have a cigarette, smoke it in the bathroom and keep some breath spray in your purse.” “I will, Mama.” “And please try to smile, Savannah.” “I will, Mama. I’ll grin all night.” “And put on a little extra makeup and wear your best cologne.” “I am, Mama, I am.” “Good, and just remember: Every man you meet don’t have to be a potential husband. If you ain’t exactly thrilled about him, be nice and act friendly anyway. He might just have some friends you like better.” “Are you speaking from experience?” “What did you say?” “Nothing.” “Bye, baby. And you have a Happy New Year.” “You too,” I said, and hung up. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit another cigarette, and stood over by the window. Now it was snowing hard and horizontally. I couldn’t see anything except lights from office buildings, red taillights and yellow headlights moving on the freeway. Mama just

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doesn’t know. I’ll be glad when I can pick up the phone one day and tell her I want her to meet my future husband. Maybe then she’ll give me a break. I went into the bathroom and plugged in the curling iron, and without even giving it a second thought, I found myself splashing on puddles of Joy. After I blow-dried my hair, I turned the fan on because it was getting too hot. My cat, Yasmine, followed me into the bedroom and sat down next to me on the bed. I put my panty hose on, then slipped into my new purple suede pumps so I could break them in. I stood up and looked down at my stomach. It was so bloated it looked like I was about three months pregnant. Yasmine looked at me like she agreed. I don’t know how I could forget that my period was due in four days, which should explain why I’d been such a bitch at work and why I spent half of last night crying for absolutely no reason I could think of. This PMS shit is definitely for real, and it’s getting worse every year. I wish I knew what to do about it. I took the panty hose off and rummaged through my top dresser drawer until I found some with a control top. They didn’t help all that much, which means I’m going to have to hold my stomach in when I walk, because I’m wearing this dress tonight and that’s all there is to it. And I lied to Mama. The only thing that’s true about this dress is that it’s tight. It’s also teal-blue suede, and since I don’t have any cleavage, my ass is about the only thing that makes a statement in it. This hair is tired, but I was doing the best I could with the curling iron. I took another sip of my wine, hoping it would help me get in some kind of festive mood, and turned on the little radio sitting on the back of the toilet. I was singing “How Will I Know” right along with Whitney Houston while I put on my makeup. I took my time because I didn’t want to look like I was wearing any, except for the lipstick. I love lipstick but wear only three colors: red-red and fuchsia, and orange in the summer. After I blotted my lips, I got a bottle of red nail polish out of the medicine cabinet to add

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a new coat to the two that had already dulled since yesterday. Then I put a pair of these drop-dead crystal earrings on and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good, but my feet were already killing me. Hopefully, in another hour or two these shoes’ll be looser. I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Somebody was asking all these celebrities about their New Year resolutions. As if anybody cared. I shook the bottle of polish and started with my thumb. Then, as corny as I know it is, I actually found myself thinking about a few resolutions of my own. On the top of my list is finding a husband. I promise myself that in 1990 I will not spend another birthday by myself, another Fourth of July by myself, another Thanksgiving by myself, and definitely not another Valentine’s Day, Christmas, or New Year’s by myself. I also need to quit smoking. But not tonight. I have to be realistic about this shit. But before my thirty-seventh birthday, which is ten whole months away, I will. I just pray I don’t get fat. So far I’ve been pretty lucky. I look and feel almost as tight as I did when I was thirty, and the most exercise I get is walking to my car. That’s pitiful, when I think about it. I know I’m at that age when my body is going to start corroding if I don’t do something to slow down the process. I remember the day I turned thirty. I was getting out of the shower and I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself for a long time. I examined every inch of my body and appreciated the fact that I finally looked like a grown woman. I also assumed that this was how I was going to look for the rest of my life. The way I saw it, I was never going to age; I’d just look up one day and be old. And Lord only knows what’d happen to my body if I were to have a baby about now. It looks like somebody stenciled beige skid marks all over Sheila’s breasts, stomach, and hips. I can’t imagine having a baby at forty. That’s too old to be bringing anything into the world if you ask me. But let me shut up. If

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I was still able, the right man could probably talk me into having one at fifty. Anyway, when I get to Phoenix, I’m joining a health club and I’ll start doing aerobics and ride that bike I spent a fortune on and have only ridden around the block. So maybe by the time I quit smoking, I’ll have already replaced one bad habit with a good one. Shit, I feel better already. After I finished both hands and started blowing on them, I was wondering: Is it really possible to want something so bad that you could make it happen just by thinking about it? I mean, could I just dream myself up a husband? Wouldn’t it sort of be like praying? A long time ago, I asked God to please send me a decent man, and one by one, what I got was Robert, Cedric, Raymond, and Kenneth. Unfortunately, I left out some very important details: like how about a little compassion, some pride as opposed to cockiness, some confidence as opposed to arrogance. Now I’m more specific: Could You make sure he talks about what he feels and not just about what he thinks? Could he have a genuine sense of his purpose in life, a sense of humor, and could he already be what he aspired to? Could he be honest, responsible, mature, drug-free, and a little bit spontaneous? Could he be full of zest, good-enough-looking for me, and please let him be a slow, tender, passionate lover? It takes me forever to say my prayers these days, but I don’t care, because this time around, I want to make sure God doesn’t have to do any guesswork. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent nine years of my adult life living with three different men that I’m glad I didn’t marry because all three of them were mistakes. Back then, I felt like I had to live with them in order to find out that I couldn’t live with them. However, I refuse to live with another one unless I’m married to him: That much I do know. I’ll take my chances the next time around. People aren’t so quick to call it quits when they’re married. I’m also willing to spend the rest of my life alone if I have to, until I

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find someone that makes me feel like I was born with a tiara on my head. People like Sheila and Mama are beginning to make me feel as if I should be embarrassed or ashamed for not having a husband by now. Mama’s got about ten empty pages in the family scrapbook set aside for my wedding pictures. At this point, they’d rather see me settle for some lackluster man with the right credentials: Put my yearnings for love a little lower on the totem pole and just be done with it. But I can’t do that. All I’ve got is one life, and this is one area that’s too large for me to compromise. As a matter of fact, most of the men I’ve met over the last few years have been boring, selfish, manipulative, or weak. Worse than babies. Got an excuse for everything. Some were just plain lost. Of course the flip side is the die-hard buppies, who think that the true measure of success is how much money they make, what kind of car they drive, how big their house is, and how much pussy they can get before they die. Their priorities are all fucked up. And the more successful they are, the more arrogant they are. They’ve taken these stupid statistics about us to heart and are having the time of their lives. They do not hold themselves accountable to anybody for anything, and they’re getting away with murder when it comes to women. And we let them. They lie to us without a conscience, they fuck as many of us at a time as they want to and then cry that “I’m not ready to make a commitment yet” bullshit as soon as you act like you’re serious about them. They have done one helluva job convincing themselves—and a whole lot of us—that we should feel desperate, which is why so many of us are willing to do damn near anything to snag one of them. Well, not me. I don’t need a man to rescue me or take care of me financially—I can take care of myself. What would be nice is to know you’re with one who’s looking out for your best interests, one who makes you feel special, safe, and secure. And one who excites you. I’m tired of being the thriller, always trying to prove myself. Shit, I want to be the thrillee

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for a change. I want a man to go out of his way for me. It would also be nice to meet one who understands that it takes more than a stiff dick to keep a woman happy. But most of the ones I’ve met don’t have a clue. What I want to know is this. How do you tell a man—in a nice way—that he makes you sick? Cecil was so vulgar when he drank that I had to drive his ass home after we went out. Which was all of three times. He still doesn’t understand why I didn’t want to see him anymore. Bill just irritated the hell out of me. I think he got a real charge bringing everything he thought I did wrong to my attention. He corrected me whenever I mispronounced a word and told me that I watered my plants too much. He wouldn’t eat my jelly because some dots of butter were in it. And he insisted on showing me how to get more dishes in the dishwasher. He was always right, and everything had to be done his way. He made me want to throw up. And what if a man’s a drag in bed? This list is too long to name names, but of course all black men think they can fuck because they all have at least ten-inch dicks. I wish I could tell some of them that they should start by checking the dictionary under F for “foreplay,” G for “gentle,” and T for “tender” or “take your time.” I’ve wanted to tell some of them that acrobatics and banging the hell out of me are not the same as making love. I’ve had enough bladder infections to last the rest of my life. And boring? John and Elliot were beyond dull. All they ever talked about were their jobs and sports. At first I thought this shit was masculine, but they lived and breathed for ESPN. Both of them had satellites, which is why neither one of them lasted longer than a baseball season. And what about Sam and Arthur and a few others, who were “recreational” drug users but couldn’t do anything unless they did a few lines or smoked a joint first? I made the mistake of telling them that right after college cocaine became my drug of choice but I stopped doing that shit years and years ago. Now that we’re all damn near middle age, I don’t want to be

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around anybody who’s still into drugs. And I’m not interested in rehabilitating anybody, either. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work. And Darrell. The wimp. He was scared of damn near everything: spiders, snakes, mice, heights, and he wouldn’t drive at night and couldn’t fix shit. And then there’re the rest, the ones who wanted to own me after I slept with them two or three times, or the ones who were just too stiff and IBMish, or so married to their jobs that they hardly had any time left for themselves, let alone me. I have tried being honest, telling them as diplomatically as I possibly could that they just weren’t right for me, that they shouldn’t take it personally because there was somebody out there for everybody. Which is how I became “the bitch.” They couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected, that I didn’t want them, so of course something had to be wrong with me. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve spent tons of energy trying to be. I wanted to tell all of them to come back and see me after they grew up or got some serious counseling. Unfortunately, most men are deaf. They hate advice. Especially if it’s from a woman. They get defensive as hell if you so much as suggest that there’s a few things they might try doing that would truly please you. “Fuck you” is what they ended up saying to me, because they didn’t want to be told what I liked or needed; they preferred to guess. Well, I’m here to tell you that at least seventy-five percent of the ones I’ve met were terrible guessers. All I’ve had in the three years I’ve been in Denver are dates from hell in one form or another. I’m sick of dating. All through college I had a boyfriend. All my girlfriends had boyfriends. We didn’t date. White girls dated. You met a guy at a party or a club or somewhere, and if you liked the way he looked or danced or smelled or what he had to say and how he said it, the next thing you knew you went out, then you slept together, and if he made you feel all tingly inside and made you smile and even laugh, and if on top of this he made you come, the next thing you knew you were going to-

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gether until some lengthy or unforgivable bullshit happened and you broke up. Then you started all over. I had four contiguous boyfriends in college and never went more than two weeks without having an orgasm. I had no idea what loneliness felt like, because somebody was always waiting in the wings to fill whatever’s-his-name’s shoes if he blew it. Times have damn sure changed. And I can’t lie. Now I worry. I worry about if and when I’ll ever find the right man, if I’ll ever be able to exhale. The more I try not to think about it, the more I think about it. This morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee, when it occurred to me that my life is half over. Never in a million years would I have ever believed that I would be thirty-six years old and still childless and single. But here I am. I turned the TV off because I was making myself feel too sad and wishy-washy, and I hate it when I get like this. Now that my nails were dry, I went into the bathroom to comb out my hair. The black lace bra I had put on was damn near empty, and I don’t even know why I bothered wearing it. If I had the nerve, I swear I’d buy me some bigger breasts instead of walking around all these years with this big ass and big legs and these little sunny-side-ups on my chest. I put my dress on and got my coat and walked out to press for the elevator. Please God, I said, as I stood there, if this man isn’t The One, at least let me have some fun tonight. Let me dance so hard that I sweat. Let me laugh. Hell, let me feel something. When the elevator doors opened and I started going down, I couldn’t believe it when Gerard—my high school sweetheart—suddenly popped into my head. He was the first major love of my life. The one who sat on the couch with me while I baby-sat and kissed me during Shock Theatre for two years in a row; the one who caressed my breasts through my blouse and then stopped because he respected me; the one who looked for me in the crowd when he scored

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a touchdown, gave me Valentine candy, and worked part time at McDonald’s so he could help take care of his mother. He was already a man at seventeen years old, and I never even slept with him. He ended up going to Vietnam, I went away to college, and I never went back to Pittsburgh. I felt myself smiling, remembering how pure and innocent he used to make me feel. I had no idea where he lived now or what he was doing, but for some reason I couldn’t even explain, something told me I probably should’ve married him. When I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, I was nervous and my heart was racing. I got out of the car, and my eyes started watering. My cheeks felt like they were being pulled away from my face; my lipstick felt like Chap Stick. It had stopped snowing, but now it was reportedly a whole twenty degrees. I knew I should’ve worn a hat and my down coat, but noooooo, I just had to look cute. By the time I made it to the lobby, the soles of my feet were frozen and my corn was already killing me. I got on the elevator with three couples. I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to let them bother me. Not tonight. If I’m lucky, next year I’ll be one of them. They mumbled a hello, but I said a loud and cheery “Happy New Year!” I was taking off my leather gloves when the doors opened and we were facing a man sitting behind a long table. He was putting money and tickets into a metal box. Lionel didn’t mention anything about having to pay. “How much is it?” I asked the man. “For you, sister, twenty dollars.” I handed him a twenty and smiled. Then I went to check my coat and walked over to the doorway that led to a huge ballroom. There were balloons and crepe paper everywhere and about two hundred people. I saw the DJ perched on a platform. The music was loud. It sounded like he was playing oldies but goodies. Only a few people were on the dance floor. I stood there and prayed that this wasn’t going to turn

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out to be one of those over-thirty-five networking parties where folks sit around and make small talk all damn night because they think they’re middle-aged and therefore no longer entitled to get loose. Hell, it was New Year’s Eve. All Lionel said was that he’d be wearing some snakeskin cowboy boots and one of those cowboy ties with silver tips on the end. It had a name, but I forgot what it was. I thought about how so many men here ride horses, and I prayed that his boots wouldn’t have spurs and he wouldn’t be wearing one of those stupid ten-gallon hats. I took a deep breath, sucked in my stomach, pretended I weighed ten pounds instead of a hundred and thirty-five, looked around the room for a vacant seat, and, when I saw one, headed in the direction of a big round table. The music stopped, and I was now in the middle of an empty dance floor. There were three nondescript couples at the table, and I politely asked, “Is someone sitting here?” “No,” one of the men said. “Please join us.” All three women gave me a suspicious once-over, and then those phony smiles that even a fool can see through. They didn’t say a word, not even so much as a nod. I wish I knew why some women are so damn catty or feel threatened by the presence of an unescorted attractive woman. Shit, it’s not my fault that I’m not fat and ugly. The way they were sizing me up, you’d swear I was wearing a sign that said, “Hell, yeah! I’m single and desperate and I have no morals and as soon as you turn your back or go to the bathroom, I’m going to flirt with your man and try to take him!” I hope I never get this insecure. I sat down anyway, since I was there, but after ten or fifteen minutes I started feeling uncomfortable, unwelcome, like an intruder or somebody with the plague. Black people didn’t use to treat each other like this. Where I came from, folks talked to you even if they didn’t know you. When these women started whispering and giggling, I decided to walk over to the bar, get myself a drink, and see if I recog-

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nized anybody or if I could identify this Lionel along the way. The DJ was playing Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough,” and it seemed like everybody migrated to the dance floor at once. This time I walked around, sliding through one crowd after another. “Yo, Mama, can I follow you?” I heard, but I didn’t bother to look up. Then a few more steps. “How’d you like to bring in the New Year with me, babeeee?” I kept walking. “Sister sister sister. You wearing the hell outta that blue suede dress. Can I take you home with me?” I ignored them and worked my way through the crowd until I finally came to the bar. I’ll be glad when these men learn that if they want to get a grown woman’s attention or if they want to give you a compliment, this is not the way to do it. “Yo, Mama” and other such phrases are not only a sign of poor upbringing, they’re tacky and downright insulting, and if I had any guts, I’d love to say, “Do I look like your mama?” I wonder if “Hello, how are you, I’m Carl or Bill or James, and you sure look nice tonight” has ever occurred to them. That’s what I want to hear. I also want to know what they’d do if just once I actually called their bluff and said, “Yo, baby, I’ve been waiting for you all my life and I’d love to fuck your brains out right now. Let’s go!” I ordered a white Zinfandel and saw an unoccupied window seat across the room, so I walked over and sat down. Within a few minutes, this man who looked like Barry White’s twin sat down next to me and smiled. That gold tooth was already working against him, and I gave him the same phony smile those women had given me. Then that bottle of Polo he was wearing started making me sneeze. “Bless you,” he said, and I thanked him. He was wearing a diamond ring on each pinkie, and he tried to cross his legs but couldn’t, so then he ran his hand over his Jheri-Kurl and leaned toward me like he was settling in for the night. That’s when I got up. “You have a Happy New Year,” I

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said, and walked away. I really felt like dancing, but I didn’t dare ask anybody, not knowing if he belonged to somebody or not. I didn’t want to get my feelings hurt tonight. I decided to find the ladies’ room, smoke a cigarette, and check my makeup. It was really an excuse to circulate, but I needed a destination. There was one thing I did know. If I didn’t see this Lionel in the next twenty minutes or if nobody decent asked me to dance, I was going home and watch Dick Clark. The bathroom was packed with rhinestoned, sequined, glowing, glittering women. Everybody was in front of the mirrors, spraying or squeezing drops of breath spray on their tongues, adding more lipstick and blush and perfume when they didn’t need it, pulling their boobs up, fluffing, spraying, and picking out their hair. Some were simply admiring themselves. I took off my shoes and lit a cigarette. All of a sudden I did have to go to the bathroom, so I got in line. That’s when I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and faced a woman who probably would’ve been even more beautiful if she wasn’t wearing so much makeup. And if she would get rid of some of that hair—which I could tell right off the bat was a weave—maybe you could actually see her face. “That’s a bad dress, girl, and you’re wearing the hell out of it,” she said. “That’s the truth,” somebody in front of the mirror said. “Thank you,” I said, and smiled. When a stall opened up, I went in, and when I came out, I checked myself in the mirror, said Happy New Year to everybody, and headed out the door. I walked over to the entrance of the ballroom and stood near the doorway. A trillion couples were all locked up on the dance floor, because Lionel Richie’s “Truly” was playing. I felt like a fool standing there by myself, but now I was praying no one would ask me to dance; I don’t like dancing close to strange men on slow songs. I was shifting my weight to my right foot—the corn on my left toe was throbbing—when I felt a wide run in my

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panty hose zip down my thigh. Shit. That’s why I hate these things. If I could get back half the money I’ve spent on panty hose, I’d be rich. I looked down to see how far it had gone, and with my peripheral vision saw a pair of cowboy boots minus spurs, attached to a set of rather long legs. I looked up and saw this hunk, this handsome hunk with mixed gray hair, a gray mustache, and a neat mixed gray beard. He was wearing a cowboy tie with silver tips. This couldn’t be Lionel, I thought, but he smiled at me with his pearly whites and gave me that “Are you who I think you are?” look. I smiled back. He was talking to a bunch of guys, and he patted one on the shoulder, then walked over toward me. “Savannah?” “Lionel?” Instead of shaking my hand he gave me a hug, which shocked the shit out of me, because I wasn’t exactly prepared for this. During the two seconds that he squeezed me, I was thinking: There is a God, and he’s watching over me tonight. “Well. Finally, we meet,” he said, and let me go carefully, as if I might fall. “What a pleasant surprise. So. How long have you been here? Are you enjoying yourself?” “I’ve been here about an hour, and yes, I’m having a pretty good time. It’s a nice party.” “Good, good, good,” he said, looking at me as if he hadn’t expected me to look quite this way, either. I sucked in my stomach and tried to poke my chest out as subtly as I possibly could and prayed he wouldn’t ask too many questions that would require me to breathe in order to answer them. At least not until I sat down. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked. “Where you sitting?” I’d never seen anybody smile and talk at the same time, but he was doing it. “Well, I’m not sitting anywhere in particular, and sure, I’ll have a glass of wine.” I looked down and took a quick breath.

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“White or red?” I was thrilled he had sense enough to ask. “White Zinfandel. Thanks.” “Be right back,” he said. “Don’t move.” I had no intention of moving, and I could tell right off the bat that there was something different about this man. First of all, he was polite and clearly articulate. Plus, he was the only one in here who wasn’t wearing a suit. He had on faded blue jeans, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look so good in a white shirt. I watched him walk away, and he moved like a man who was sure of himself. Like he knew his own power. And I swear, if I wasn’t mistaken, it seemed as if a clearing was made for him to pass right on through. I already liked his style. I was trying not to fidget, and I needed a cigarette about now, but instead I reached inside my purse and got out two Tic Tacs, popped them into my mouth, and started sucking real fast. Then, so as not to look nervous, lost, or bewildered, I pretended I was looking for somebody. I was still concentrating on finding this invisible person when Lionel came back. “Looking for somebody?” he asked. “No. I thought I saw somebody I knew, but I didn’t.” “You sure look beautiful tonight,” he said, and I thought I would go right through the floor. I blushed and said the softest thank you known to mankind. “Would you like to join me at my table?” “Sure,” I said, and followed him. There were a few more obvious couples and three empty chairs. We sat down, and I put my purse in my lap and let it lean up against my stomach, then I crossed my arms in front of it. “So,” he said. “How long have you been in Denver?” “Three years.” “Do you like it here?” “It’s okay, but I’m moving to Phoenix at the end of February.”

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“Phoenix? Why Phoenix?” “Well, I got a better job offer.” “What kind of work do you do?” “For the last three years I’ve been doing PR for the gas company, and technically I’ll be doing the same thing, except at a television station.” “Interesting,” he said, while nodding his head in slow motion. “Not many of us out there, are there?” “Not many of us in Denver, either, but that didn’t stop us from coming, right?” “You’ve got a point. Well, I hear Arizona’s beautiful. You sure you can take that heat?” “Let me put it this way. I’d rather be too hot than too cold any day.” He started laughing. I didn’t think that what I’d just said was all that funny, but I started laughing too, like a fool. I was about to ask Lionel exactly what he did for a living, since he had mentioned something about starting some new business ventures, but I decided to wait. I hate asking men that question right off the bat, because I’m sure they’re probably thinking that you’re just trying to figure out how much money they make, not that it doesn’t matter. The main reason I usually ask is because what a person does for a living tells me something about them. “So did you make your New Year’s resolution?” he asked. “I did,” I said, and took a sip of my wine. “Are you gonna keep it?” “I’m working on one of them right now,” I said. “Are you giving up something?” “It depends.” Then both of us started laughing. “How about you?” I asked. “Did you make one?” “I make affirmations,” he said. “Every single day.” Just then, Billy Ocean’s “Caribbean Queen” came on. I used to love to dance to that song.

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“Would you like to dance?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, and got up. We squeezed our way onto the dance floor, and for forty-one, this man could still dance. His movements were strong and smooth, fluid, and I kept looking at those athletic hips and thighs, imagining how hairy and tight they probably were, and what a dream he must be in bed. He smiled at me through three more songs and looked me in the eyes until I thought mine were just about ready to cross. When I heard “If Only for One Night” by Luther Vandross come on, I was just about to head off the floor, when he reached for my hand and said, “One more. Please?” Thank you, Jesus, I thought. Lionel put his arms around me and held me close, so close that to keep from getting lipstick on his shirt I had to turn my head to the side, and what else could I do but rest it on his chest, which was firm and hot? His hands circled my back, and I heard him say, “You sure feel good.” I lifted my head and looked up at him. “You don’t feel too bad yourself,” I said. He sort of laughed and pressed my head back down. That’s when I went ahead and closed my eyes, feeling the run run down my leg, but I didn’t care. I exhaled and pretended that this man was mine. That he was everything I’d ever dreamed of, that he was the one I’d been waiting for all my life. When the record ended, Lionel walked and I floated back to his table, but now the other empty seat was filled with the woman who had given me the compliment in the bathroom. “Savannah, I want you to meet a good friend of mine. Denise, Savannah.” She smiled at me and said, “We’ve sort of already met.” “Hello again,” I said, and didn’t know if I should sit down or not. But I sat down. Lionel looked a little bewildered. Then Denise scooted her chair as close to his as it would go, put her arms around him, and said, “You haven’t danced with me all night, Li-

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onel.” She got up and stood directly in front of him and took him by the hands. He got up and looked at me as if he was apologizing. I gave him what I thought to be an understanding look and tried not to stare at them as they headed out to the dance floor. I couldn’t even hear the song, because I was hypnotized watching him hold her the way he had just held me. Before I knew it, I had reached into my purse and lit a cigarette and forced myself to look in the other direction, because I couldn’t stand this. When I went to uncross my legs and the run zipped down to my ankle and I felt my heel pop through the hole and stick to the lining of my shoe, that was my cue. I put out my cigarette, picked my purse up off the table, and headed for the coatroom. If I was lucky, I could still catch Dick Clark.

Suddenly Single

R

ight after Bernadine’s husband told her he was leaving her for a white girl, she stood in the kitchen doorway, snatched the eighteen hot rollers out of her hair, and threw every last one of them at him. A few loose curls fell over her eyes and into her mouth, so she pulled them behind her ears. “I’m sorry,” John said, and finished the last of his coffee. “You can have the house, but I want the condo.” “House?” she said. “Condo?” Bernadine tried to look directly into John’s eyes in order to figure out if this was some kind of joke, but for some reason her vision was blurred. He was out of focus, and she couldn’t tell if the expression on his face was fear or relief. They had both known for over a year that everything between them was wrong. There weren’t any more excuses, apologies, or explanations for his not coming home. Intimacy was out of the question. Neither desired the other. And when they did sleep in the same bed, their backs barely brushed. Rows of perspiration had trickled down the nape of her neck into her hair and soaked through the top of her nightgown. A lone stream was making its way down her spine. But Bernadine didn’t care. She squinted, hoping to get a closer look at John. It was indifference she saw all over his face. His shoulders were so erect when he popped a PopTart into the toaster that she knew he didn’t really give a damn how she felt or what her reaction to his announcement 26

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would be. She couldn’t decide what else his face carried. Now she was trying to remember just how he’d said it. It seemed as if he’d told her with the same tone he used when he’d say, “I’m going to the store, do you want something?” or, “Is anything good on HBO tonight?” But then again, Bernadine really couldn’t be sure, because she felt stoned, as if she’d smoked a good joint. But she hadn’t. Still, something was pushing her shoulders down, while what felt like helium was escaping inside her head. She couldn’t move. She was sinking and floating. Felt heavy, then light. And this scared her. She tried to get her feet to move, to turn and walk down the hallway, but they were paralyzed. She tried to raise her arms, to dismiss this whole thing, but now they were frozen too. She couldn’t even move her fingers. And then, for no apparent reason, Bernadine remembered feeling helpless like this before. It was the time she had almost drowned. She had swum out into the middle of the lake to a raft with a girlfriend who was six months pregnant. Being a pack-aday smoker and not a very good swimmer, Bernadine was so out of breath she was panting by the time she climbed up and collapsed on the wooden slats. The sun was turning orange behind her closed lids, and she was just getting comfortable, when she heard a voice say, “Ready?” She opened her eyes and saw a big belly hovering over her. “Race you back,” her girlfriend said, and dove back in. Bernadine sat up slowly and tumbled over the side of the raft. She cut through the water without grace. She could see her girlfriend up ahead. For five or six yards, Bernadine did the crawl stroke, but when she went to pull her right arm up over her shoulder, she had no strength. She tried treading water but had no strength to do that, either. She tried twisting over on her back to float, but the thought itself tired her even more, and finally she gave in and let her body sink. With her eyes open, Bernadine dropped down, watching the golden water swirl in front of her, thousands of bubbles engulfing her, and she felt as if she

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was flying. She went ahead and surrendered, gave in to what felt like complete grace, as close to peace as she had ever come, when suddenly it occurred to her that she was in fact drowning. She panicked. Took water into her lungs and was coughing, when her feet touched the bottom of the lake. Bernadine pushed down hard, forcing her body to jet up through what seemed like miles of water, where she was surprised to learn that she could now stand. The water barely covered her shoulders. She stood there for a few minutes, long enough to catch her breath, then started walking to shore, the water pulling at her breasts, thighs, and calves. She didn’t bother telling her friend, who was waiting on the blanket, that she had almost given herself permission to die. Now she looked over at her husband, thinking she had wanted to be rid of him, had been trying to conjure up the courage, the nerve, the guts, to tell him to leave, but she didn’t have that much courage yet. All she wanted to do was repossess her life. To feel that sense of relief when the single most contributing factor to her uttermost source of misery was gone. But he beat her to the punch. Not only was he leaving her. Not only was he leaving her for another woman. He was leaving her for a white woman. Bernadine hadn’t expected this kind of betrayal, this kind of insult. John knew this would hurt me, she thought, as she tried to will the tears rolling down her cheeks to evaporate. And he’d chosen the safest route. A white woman was about the only one who’d probably tolerate his ass. Make him king. She’s probably flattered to death that such a handsome, successful black man would want to take care of her, make her not need anything except him. She’ll worship him, Bernadine thought, just like I did in the beginning, until the spell wore off. Hell, I was his white girl for eleven years. It’s sad, she thought, as she stared at specks of what had to be Kathleen’s dandruff on the lapels of John’s black suit, that when you finally come to understand the man you love, that’s when you realize you don’t love him anymore. As a

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matter of fact, she couldn’t stand John. It had taken years for her to see that he was nothing but an event junkie: Marriage had been an event; the business had been an event; and the kids had been events too. And just as he’d promised, he had conquered the American dream: built a dream house in a picture-perfect neighborhood and filled it with picture-perfect furnishings. Since they lived in the desert, John wanted the yard to look like one, so he spent a fortune on mature palm trees, ten-foot saguaro and ocotillo and mesquite trees and almost every other form of desert vegetation the landscaper had shown him. Neither of them played tennis, but there was room for a court, so he put one in. And a lap pool, which he’d been in maybe three or four times. Since the time she had almost drowned, Bernadine was scared of water and had never done more than put her feet on the steps in the shallow end. And John just had to have what Bernadine thought of as Hollywood cars: He had bought her a BMW, a Porsche for himself, and the Cherokee for hauling the kids around. Only private school was good enough for the Harris children, even though they lived in one of the best school districts in Scottsdale. And there were only four black kids in the whole school, but that’s the way John wanted it. “They’ll get a solid education and be exposed to all the right things. And we won’t have to worry about them being badly influenced,“ he’d said. Over the last five or six years, it became apparent to her that John was doing nothing but imitating the white folks he’d seen on TV or read about in Money magazine. At first he thought he was J. R. Ewing, then a black clone of Donald Trump, and finally he settled on Cliff Huxtable. And he was good at it. He loved to entertain. At least once a month they had a dull dinner party, where Bernadine, who had long since transformed herself into Martha Stewart, would spend hours preparing exotic meals she had memorized from countless gourmet cookbooks. He had a vintage wine col-

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lection stored in the underground bin that he’d had specially built. But John didn’t drink. Of course John was also a shrewd businessman. He believed that money should make money. For that reason, he’d always handled their financial affairs. They had liquid accounts with Lehman Brothers and Prudential Bache; CDs and IRAs and zero coupon bonds, and savings bonds for the kids. What Bernadine didn’t know about were the two hundred acres of farmland John owned in California or that he was a fifty percent owner of a vineyard in Arizona. She had no idea how much stock he owned, because she wasn’t allowed to open his mail. She didn’t have a clue about the three-week time share in Lake Tahoe or the apartment building he’d just bought in Scottsdale. If Bernadine hadn’t trusted John all these years, she’d have known about his Subway franchise and the brownstone he owned back in Philadelphia, both of which were in his mother’s name. If she hadn’t trusted him all these years, never doing anything more than signing their joint tax returns—because what was the point; they always had to pay up the ass anyway—she would’ve known about all these enterprises. If she hadn’t trusted John all these years, she would’ve known that he’d just sold his half of the software company to his partner for a mere three hundred thousand dollars, even though its market value was well over three million. But John’s partner was also his friend, and although John was now just a salaried employee, his partner had agreed to “take care of him” down the road, once Bernadine was out of the picture. However, John still had use of an unlimited expense account. If Bernadine hadn’t trusted him all these years, she’d have known that all of this had been carefully planned and calculated. Now—on paper—John’s income would drop from four hundred thousand dollars a year to eighty. But Bernadine had trusted him all these years, and she had no idea how much it was going to cost her. It’s unfortunate, she thought, as she watched him take a

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sip of his coffee, then gritted her teeth to stop them from chattering, that he never understood or appreciated the virtues of patience, the sanctity of stability, or the sheer comfort of knowing that you have some level of control over what happens next. By the time John knew he had clearly arrived, when everything had fallen into place and there wasn’t much further he could go—when the routine had become too much of a routine, when even making money became predictable—John needed another event. Enter Kathleen. His boredom with Bernadine and their life had set in like gangrene, and she knew there was no antibiotic strong enough to cure it. She almost wanted to warn the white girl. And she wasn’t hurt. She was mad. So mad that now her temples were twitching and it felt as though somebody was tightening a rubber band around her forehead. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t get her mouth to work. She took a deep breath, and kept inhaling until finally she managed to get a small tunnel of oxygen into her lungs. “Take it easy, Bernie. You knew this was coming, so let’s not get theatrical.” She exhaled slowly, then said, “Theatrical.” It sounded like she was singing it soprano, so she said it again, like an alto. “Theatrical?” Bernadine wanted to tell him that he could take his little Barbie doll and leave now. But she couldn’t say it, because her mind kept getting tangled up and now she couldn’t stop blinking. She collapsed against the doorframe for support and waited for her muscles to work. So this is how a bookkeeper keeps books, she thought. This is what happens after eleven years of marriage. This is how it can all end, just like this, on a Sunday morning when you wake up, getting ready for church, and you put your rollers in and go in the bedroom to check on the kids and decide to let them sleep a few more minutes and your husband calls you out into the kitchen, where he’s drinking coffee, wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday when he left,

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and of course you can see that he’s not going to church and he tells you, “We need to talk,” and you dread this because talks always lead nowhere and they always end up with John telling you what you’re not doing right or what you’re not doing enough of or what he would prefer that you be doing. He hands you a cup of coffee and does not prepare you for anything except some more minor bullshit, but then he just blurts out, “I’ve filed for a divorce because I want to marry Kathleen.” You are glad you didn’t sit down. You drop the cup on the floor, and the hot coffee splatters all over your ankles and the hem of your nightgown. At first you don’t feel it, but you do feel the heat from the rollers, so you yank them out two at a time and hurl them at him. You know who Kathleen is, and you know you heard him right. Kathleen is twelve years younger than you. She is twenty-four. She is white. She is your husband’s bookkeeper. At his company, where he sells computer software. The company you helped him start. The company you worked your ass off to strengthen, because right after you went back to school and got your degree in business, you became his secretary, his office manager, his computer, his consultant, his accountant, his bookkeeper, his wife, and his lover. You did everything for him at once. And then he grew. He got a partner and a real office and real employees and, later, Kathleen the bookkeeper, who was fresh out of some two-year college and California pretty and blond but not at all a threat because, number one, she was white and you knew John would never look at a white girl and, number two, he loved you and the kids. Of course this is all your fault, Bernadine, because like a fool you acquiesced too soon and gave up too much. You fell right into the blueprint of his life and gave up your own. Let him talk you into leaving Philadelphia and moving out here to Phoenix, where the overhead was supposedly low. He knew you had always wanted to start a catering business, but John said to wait. Wait to see how well his business did

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before taking on any more unnecessary risks. While you waited, you took the first boring job offer you got, at a nursing home. Then he had this house built on a mountainside acre in Scottsdale because he wanted privacy. You got lonely up here on this mountain in this big-ass house. You began to ignore the city lights you could see from every room; the sunsets began to vex you because they were so predictable. You even prayed for a few overcast days, just to break up the monotony of all this damn sunshine. And on top of everything, all your neighbors were white and not all that neighborly. So you put your dream on hold and learned how to decorate. For a while, all you thought about were French doors and Mexican tile and window coverings and Kohler toilets and Sub-Zero refrigerators and porcelain vs. stainless steel and Casablanca ceiling fans and recessed lighting and verde light fixtures and pickled oak and cool decking. Everything in your house was southwestern. But you started to loathe anything that was pastel and everything that had a coyote or a cactus on it. You had enough equipment in the kitchen to open a restaurant: Krups coffee/cappuccino/espresso maker; four different sets of pots and pans: Calphalon, white and orange baked enamel, stainless steel; and you had woks, a Belgianwaffle maker, deluxe blenders, an Acme juicer, and everything Cuisinart ever made. You even joined a cookbook club and spent years in the kitchen teaching yourself how to prepare even more exotic meals. To get out of the house, you took a cooking class. Then an entrepreneur class for women. You had tons of books on catering, but then John thought it would be a good idea for you to become a CPA, so you took the test and failed two parts on purpose because you did not want to become an accountant. And you didn’t need to drive a BMW— you had loved your Legend. You didn’t want to store your art deco posters in the garage simply because they weren’t originals. You

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didn’t need two-hundred-dollar shoes or Louis Vuitton luggage or somebody’s name on the label of every piece of clothing you bought. You didn’t need that ugly Rolex, either— your Seiko was just fine. You thought gold was boring, that silver was prettier and looked purer, but thanks to John, you owned more gold than Mr. T. And you had never been turned on by diamonds; you loved stones that had some cultural value: lapis, jade, turquoise, carnelian, ivory, onyx, and obsidian. But John wanted you to look rich, and for the past eleven Christmases and birthdays, every box he gave you was small enough to fit in your palm and you didn’t have to guess what was inside. And the kids. They were spoiled rotten. Too many expensive toys, which, for the last four years, you’d given to the children in Mexico at Christmas, along with tons of shoes and clothes, some of which had never been worn. What it all boiled down to was that you didn’t need to live in all this luxury to be happy. Because you weren’t. You didn’t need to be rich in order to appreciate the “finer” things in life. Right after you got married, John started his litany. “One day I’m going to have exactly what they have,” he’d say. “They” being rich white folks. He had taken it to the extreme, gone completely overboard, but you couldn’t tell him that. You didn’t know how to tell him. You didn’t know then that you had no courage, or that you’d need so much of it, at least as far as dealing with your husband was concerned. When you told him you wanted to cut your hair, he told you he would leave you if you ever came walking in here with it short. So you let it grow. You had to wear number 30 sun block or avoid the sun altogether, which was pretty hard to do in Phoenix, because John didn’t want you to get too dark. And more important than anything, you didn’t tell him how damaging you thought it might be to your kids to go to a school where there were only two other black children. But you were his wife, and you had done

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what you’d been taught to do: let him take the wheel while you took the back seat. You fool. You didn’t even realize that you had stopped looking at the road, until John got bored watching the fish multiply in the ponds he’d had dug in the backyard and said he thought it was time to start a family. So you got pregnant. Your blood pressure skyrocketed and you had to quit your job, but John said it was better this way. You should be at home. So you followed both his and the doctor’s orders. You stayed in a horizontal position for six months and read Dr. Spock and every baby book on the market until you felt like a child expert. When John junior was born, you poured all your energy into motherhood and watched your husband’s business prosper. You believed in him, in the safety of his plans. And at his request, before John junior could say a complete sentence, you had another baby. John insisted on naming the first child after him, and you insisted on naming the second one. But he didn’t want any child of his to have an African name. He wanted to name her Jennifer or Kristen or Ashley or Lauren, but you had made a deal, and you kept it. By the time you were weaning Onika off breast milk, you started feeling restless and bored and got tired of staying at home with the kids all day long. You started watching those stupid soap operas and game shows and got a prescription for Xanax because you were screaming all day long. And your brain, it felt as if it was shrinking. Every single time you said you were ready to start your catering business, John would think of something else for you to do with the kids that would usurp your time. He wouldn’t let you put them in day care, because he thought those places were dangerous. So you spent your afternoons taking John junior to piano lessons, karate, Cub Scouts, T-ball, and soccer. You dragged Onika to ballet and gymnastics when the child could barely walk straight. He had

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convinced you that being a good mother meant staying at home with the children until they were at least school age. So you postponed your dream again. For five more years. But you felt like a single mother, because John worked long hours and the kids were always asleep when he got home and barely saw him on weekends. It was you who read them bedtime stories. You who took off work to take them to the doctor, the dentist. You who stayed home to nurse them when they were sick. It was you who didn’t miss a recital or a game. It was you who took them to school and picked them up. It was you who got the wax out of their ears, made sure they took their vitamins, and later made sure they did their homework right. And it was you who took them trickor-treating, you who dressed up like the Easter bunny, and for the last eight years, it was you who coordinated their birthday parties and sat through hundreds of others. And then there were the conventions. The conferences. The trade shows. The potential-client dinners. Potentialclient meetings. John went everywhere he could so he wouldn’t have to come home. And sex. It became almost irrelevant, almost an afterthought, because when it did happen it was as if John was doing you a favor, and even then he tried to overcompensate. So you stopped wearing the garters, the G-strings, the lace, and those four-inch heels. You hid all those videos that had given him most of his ideas. You stopped pretending to enjoy it altogether and started giving him mummy pussy. You simply stopped moving. Of course by then you knew something was terribly wrong, but you didn’t know how to fix it and didn’t want to. And last year, right after Onika had started first grade, John had a brainstorm. He wanted another baby. For the first time in years you felt strong enough and told him no. That you had not been educated to become a permanent housewife, that you needed more stimulation and you were going to get it. He got mad and you got your tubes tied. You com-

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plained to Gloria, your crazy hairdresser, who told you that one sure cure for chronic boredom was to get involved in something worthwhile. She belonged to Black Women on the Move, a support group that held workshops for women who wanted to do more with their lives than cook, clean, and take care of the kids; for women who weren’t moving but wanted to move; for women who had already achieved some measure of success but wanted to find a better way to deal with the stress that came with it; for women who wanted to be more than role models, who were willing to make the time to do something for black folks whose lives—for whatever reason—were in bad shape. So you joined it. Gloria introduced you to everybody she knew, but Robin was the one you hit it off with. She was so unlike you: bold and zany, optimistic about everything, and she talked a mile a minute. She didn’t have a drop of class, no sense of style, but it was clear that she tried hard. And you didn’t care, because what you liked about Robin was the fact that she knew who she was and what she wanted, which turned out to be a baby. She ordained herself “Auntie Robin” and started taking your kids to the park, the movies, the zoo, roller-skating, to anything “on ice”—and anyplace else she saw in the Sunday paper—so you could have some time to yourself and she could get some maternal experience. You thought she was a little on the fickle side when it came to men, because that boyfriend of hers was giving her a run for her money. He treated her worse than a stepchild, but you kept your mouth shut and your thoughts to yourself, because you now had something you hadn’t had in a long time: somewhere to go, something to do, and somebody to do it with. When John had eventually refused to give you the money to start your catering business, claiming it was just too risky, you took another boring job, as a controller for a real estate management firm, and lied to him about your salary. You began to put money aside so one day you could start your business anyway. He had a series of fits after you went back

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to work, because now not only did you have your own money but for the first time in years you had interests outside of him and the kids and this stupid house. From there everything had gone downhill. “I’ll be back next Sunday to get my stuff,” you heard him say. “You’ll be hearing from the lawyer soon too.” This was entirely too easy for him. And like everything else he did, you could tell that he’d been creating the software for this program for some time. But he’d computed wrong. You wanted to catch him off guard, remind him that you also knew how to exit DOS, how to search and replace, how to merge, but when you thought about it, you realized you didn’t have to prove anything to him anymore, so instead you simply moved your cursor. You cleared your throat and summoned your mouth to work. “What about Onika and John junior?” “I love my kids,” he said. “And I’ll make arrangements.” “Arrangements?” “You’ll get some money, don’t worry.” “Money?” That’s what this was really all about. Division. Dollars. Divvying. He’s scared I’m gonna take his ass to the cleaners. Bernadine felt as if she’d been plugged back in. Her fingers twitched and her feet tingled. But now that she could talk, she didn’t have a damn thing to say to him. She turned her back and walked through the living room, up the two steps into their bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. She surveyed the room. A room she felt could easily be part of a funeral home. The mahogany bed was too ornate and looked like a giant sleigh. She had never seen a burgundy flower before in her life, but the comforter was full of them. There were too many goddamn pictures on the wall. Ugly oil paintings of things she didn’t give a damn about, in those ugly gilded frames. She wanted white bookcases, but John had insisted on maple. And that Chinese rug. She hated that damn rug because she hated green, and besides, there

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was nothing in this room, nothing in this whole house, that would indicate that black people lived here. She jumped over the rug, and the tiles made her feet cold, but Bernadine didn’t feel like putting on her slippers. She headed for the bathroom. Once in there, she stood stock-still and looked at herself in the wide mirror behind the two sinks. Sunlight poured down over her from the skylight. Her eyes were puffy, her lips were chapped, and four red splotches had formed on her left cheek. She looked terrible. She turned around to face the mirror on the linen closet door and, for no apparent reason, lifted up her nightgown. Her breasts had shrunk. They didn’t look the way they did before the kids. They were thin and almost flat; her nipples were on the verge of pointing downward. The contour of her body was a short soft curve, her skin a dull brown, except for the beige stretch marks on her hips and belly. Bernadine felt old. She looked old. Older than thirty-six. She got closer to the mirror, so close that when she breathed, two small circles of fog formed. She studied her face. Bernadine knew she’d never been pretty, and she reconfirmed it now. She stepped backward and stopped. Her eyes grazed up and down her body once more, because she was trying to imagine if anybody might still think of her as attractive, since right this minute she was ugly. She let go of her nightgown until she felt the hem hit her knees. She said, “Cheese.” Her teeth looked yellow, although it had been 106 days since she’d quit smoking. But damn, that was what she needed right now. A cigarette. A cigarette would help her believe this. A cigarette would help her understand that her life had just been revised. A cigarette would help her decide exactly what to do next. How to proceed. She already knew she would no longer have a husband. Then she thought about that. Not have a husband? She sat down on the toilet and put her face in her lap. It seemed as if she’d always had a husband. Now all she knew was that she was going to be a thirty-six-year-old divorced mother of

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two. Which meant she was going to be single. “Single?” Her face sprang up, as if she’d just remembered something she’d forgotten. “You son of a bitch!” she said, and jumped up from the toilet to look at herself again. Who’s gonna want me? How am I supposed to start over, when in fact I’m not starting over? This is the middle of my damn life! And I’ve got two kids! Bernadine opened the medicine cabinet and looked at a row of prescription bottles. She was looking for an X for Xanax. When she found the bottle, she opened the top and popped two of them dry. She’d never taken two before. They were dissolving on her tongue when she realized she should take them with water. She turned on the faucet, placed her palms on her side of the vanity and stared at the gold-andblack speckles on the cultured marble. She pushed all her weight on her hands and felt her shoulders drop. I hadn’t planned for this, she thought. Never even anticipated what I’d do if my marriage didn’t last. It was supposed to last. She filled a Dixie cup with water, swallowed it like a shot, threw the cup in the trash, then felt even more enraged for having been this presumptuous. She wanted to punish herself for being so damn naive, but all she could do right now was kick the hell out of the mirror on the door. A spiderweb spread across the silver surface and made her body look as though it had cracked into hundreds of broken pieces. “A pack of Kools, please,” she said to the man behind the counter at the Circle K. “You ain’t got nothin’ smaller?” he asked, trying to give her back the hundred-dollar bill she had handed him. “I don’t know,” she said, and didn’t bother to look. He was staring at her rather strangely, because although he saw crazies up here from time to time, this one looked sane, except why was her hair in them Shirley Temple–looking curls, like she just took out her rollers and didn’t comb it? And why was she wearing a bathrobe and fancy bedroom

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slippers and a diamond ring what looked as big as that one Liz Taylor got? It looked like she’d been crying, ’cause her eyes was blood red, but then again, he thought, it could be drugs. That’s probably it. She ain’t been to sleep. A whole heap of these rich white women what live up here don’t do nothin’ but pop pills and drink all day long, ’cause they come in here to get their liquor and I see them little white bags with the writing on ’em from Walgreen’s when they open their purses. That’s a shame, he thought, as he watched Bernadine try to stuff all those bills inside her wallet. This one here’s black. Bernadine had not remembered leaving the house, or driving, or the fact that John had left before her. She did not remember falling down the two steps outside her bedroom when she had gone to look for her purse. She didn’t know that right this minute the kids were still asleep, alone in the house, nor did she realize that for February, it was a record 90 degrees outside. When she got back into her car and turned on the ignition, not only did she not hear it, but her hands didn’t feel the steering wheel, and the music coming out of the radio sounded muffled and distant, even though it was loud. Bernadine was trying to keep her eyes open, and when she looked out the window, everything she saw was gray. She knew that heat was silver, but when she blinked, everything was still gray. She pushed in the lighter and ripped the cellophane off the pack. When the lighter popped out, she lit her cigarette and sucked in the cool smoke. She did not cough. She sank into the sheepskin seat, pushed the gear in reverse, pulled out of the parking space without looking over her shoulder, and tried to remember which way led home.

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hey say love is a two-way street. But I don’t believe it, because the one I’ve been on for the last two years was a dirt road. I finally gave up on Russell—a lying, sneaky, whorish Pisces—after realizing he was never gonna marry me. The first time I asked him about it, he said, “Just be patient, baby.” And I was. Six more months went by, and he never once brought the subject back up. That’s when it dawned on me that I could be living with him for the rest of my life. Last January, we went to see The Accidental Tourist and came home and made some serious love. I knew Russell was in a luscious mood, so I figured this was the perfect time to bring it up again. And you know what he said? That marriage was a scary thing and he still wasn’t ready to “make that move” yet. I pushed him off of me and sat up. “What’s so scary about it?” “Everything,” he said, and started stroking my breasts. “Russell, it’s not prison,” I said, and brushed his hand away. “We’ve been living together a whole year. What’s the difference?” “There’s a big difference.” “Russell, do you really love me?” “Of course I love you,” he said, and started kissing my arm. 42

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“Don’t I make you happy?” “Very.” “Don’t I satisfy you?” “Definitely.” “Then I don’t understand what the problem is. You’re thirty-seven years old, Russell.” “I know that.” “And I’ll be thirty-five in six months.” “I know that too,” he said. Now he was circling my belly button with his index finger. “Well, when do you think you’ll be ready?” I said, and slapped the top of his hand. “Soon,” he said, and rolled over. “I do wanna marry you, Robin. But it’s a big commitment, and I’m just trying to get used to the whole idea. And as soon as I am, believe me, baby, you’ll be the first to know.” So, like a fool, I kept my fingers crossed and hung in there another six months. I didn’t wanna lose Russell. I’d had five serious relationships over the last seven years, and two of them ended because they met somebody else. I was determined not to let that happen again. I did everything in my power to make sure Russell would keep loving me. I kept myself up. Worked out four days a week, and he hardly ever saw me without my makeup. I spent a fortune on this weave, and mine looks as good as—if not better than— Janet Jackson’s. I used to do my own press-on nails, but I let Gloria give me some acrylics after Bernadine finally told me how tacky they looked. My polish was never chipped, I always got a fill when I needed one, and my feet were never crusty because I got a pedicure once, sometimes twice, a month. I kept this apartment spotless, and Russell never had to so much as empty the trash. I warned him ahead of time that I couldn’t cook, but he said he didn’t care. He was also the outdoorsy type, liked to go camping, hiking, and fishing. I hated sleeping outside, not being able to go to a real bathroom, and fishing was totally boring, but I didn’t complain.

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I went anyway. And on top of everything else, I gave him as much pussy as he wanted, whenever he wanted it, even when I was dead tired. What more could a man ask for? When I first met Russell, he was living with some woman in this super-deluxe apartment complex, but he came home from work one day and she had moved out. Took everything. I hate to say it, but I was glad. I was tired of “laying low” and sneaking. Tired of him getting up in the middle of the night to go home, and really tired of not being able to call him except when she was out of town. He worked on a train, for Southern Pacific Railroad, so I couldn’t exactly call him at work. I went over there a few times, but I never slept with him in their bed. That I refused to do. I did have some pride. Russell said that even though he could afford to keep the apartment, what was the point? He had told me at least a hundred times that as soon as he could figure out a way to end the relationship amicably, he would, because he loved me and couldn’t wait until the time came when he could be with me twenty-four hours a day. “I guess things happen for a reason, don’t they, baby?” he said. This psychic I go to, who’s also a numerologist, had just told me something similar the week before: “Timing is everything,” she said. And since I was entering a four personal month, she told me that “some mistakes would soon be corrected.” She didn’t say whose, but look at how things turned out. I didn’t want to know why that woman had left him, and didn’t ask. I was just happy to have him all to myself, which is why, four days later, I let him move in with me. I felt like I had finally been blessed, because Russell was so fine that every black woman in America in her right mind probably wished she could have him. But he was mine now. He did have a few problems. Problems I thought I could help fix. First of all, Russell was in so much debt I borrowed three thousand dollars from my parents and lent it to him so he wouldn’t have to file Chapter 11. He got in a minor car

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accident, and as it turned out, his insurance had just been canceled, but since I work for one of the biggest insurance companies in Phoenix, I made a few phone calls and was able to get him a backdated policy, and at a cheaper rate than he was paying before. He was having a string of bad luck, because then somebody stole his car, so I cosigned for him to get another one, because he couldn’t go to work on his motorcycle. To make a long story short, everything was fine until I found that half-slip in his gym bag and noticed quite a few of the Calvin Klein briefs I’d bought him started disappearing. And just like they do on TV, he started playing poker every Friday night with the fellas. Well, color me stupid, because I didn’t want to believe he was seeing another woman. My mother always told me that things are never as bad as they look and to always give a person the benefit of the doubt. So I didn’t mention the slip to Russell. I racked my brain trying to figure out what I wasn’t doing enough of that might make him want to stray. Bernadine said I should just blow his brains out, because that’s what she’d do if she ever found out John was cheating on her. Gloria told me to open my eyes and stop acting like I was blind. My mother said to make sure he used a condom from now on, and my daddy, who has Alzheimer’s, didn’t understand what the big fuss was all about. I couldn’t give up without a fight, so I tried harder and harder and even harder than that to please him. I loved Russell and wanted him to marry me so I could have his baby. I’d had a million dreams about it. But I know what my karmic lessons are. My numerology book says I’m too decentralized and will have a tendency to fight to express myself, because I’m always going to meet opposition. It also said I might want to consider changing my name in order to get a better vibration, because I’ll never be able to “see the woods for the trees” as long as I’m a five. But I can’t do that. Russell’s numbers are worse than mine. He’s full of fours.

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Which means he’s irresponsible, tends to be scattered, restless, and dissatisfied, and in case of fire, he would seek all doors at once and, finding none, would run around in circles, screaming. Until he learned his karmic lessons he’d be a pleasure-seeker, constantly demanding change. But our Life Paths added up to the same number, so I figured he was supposed to be a part of my destiny, which was one reason why I couldn’t let him go. The next thing I know, some woman starts calling the house and hanging up. Then I get this anonymous letter at work, marked Confidential, but my secretary claimed she didn’t see that, so she opened it. I didn’t know what to think after I read it. It was typed. And it said this: “You’re one stupid woman. Do you realize that the only reason Russell moved in with you was because the woman he was living with took his name off the lease, and since his credit was so bad, they evicted him? Did you know that? Did you know that a totally different woman helped him buy that 325i and when he got behind three payments she took his name off the title and reclaimed it? I bet he told you somebody stole it, didn’t he? How much have you lent him? Has he promised to marry you too? Do you get the feeling that he’s stalling because he keeps coming up with all kinds of lameass excuses why he can’t ‘make that move yet’? Dream on, honey. Dream on. You better get out now while you can.” Whoever it was signed her name: “Burned Once But Not Twice.” I tore it to pieces. But I told Russell about it, and you know what he said? It must be some disgruntled woman from his past, trying to get back at him. He said he had no idea who it could be, and if I believed that bullshit, then it just meant I didn’t have very much faith in him, and how could he think of marrying somebody who didn’t have any faith in him? A few weeks went by. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and we had just come back from tubing on the Arizona River. We went on Russell’s motorcycle, and when

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he pulled into the parking space next to our cars, somebody had slit the top of my 5.0 to shreds. That was the last straw. I didn’t want to hear another one of his tired excuses. He couldn’t apologize his way out of this. So I packed his clothes and put his ass out. Once it sunk in that he was really gone, it felt like there was this big hole in my life that needed to be filled. I was a mess. I lost eight pounds in two weeks, and still haven’t been able to gain it back. I didn’t have that much ass to begin with, and now it’s gone. I don’t know why I didn’t get fired: I forgot about meetings I had with brokers and couldn’t come up with quotes I’d promised. At night I sat by the phone, waiting for it to ring, and when it did, it was never him. But I got tired of being depressed, so to make myself feel better, I went on an extended shopping spree: from July until right after Christmas. If somebody was having a sale, I was there when the doors opened. I also became the queen of mail order. At least two or three times a week the UPS man would ring my doorbell or leave the packages behind the big pot of jumping cholla outside my front door. It felt good coming home and finding these boxes waiting for me. Half the time I forgot what I ordered, but I made a game out of trying to guess what was underneath the tissue paper. I ran all of my credit cards up to their limit, which was why I had to get that consolidation loan last month. The bank made me cut all nine of them up, right there in that office, but thank God they let me keep my Visa and Spiegel cards. Russell still hasn’t paid me back a dime. I did not like being by myself and wasn’t used to it. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a man in my life. I needed some form of male stimulation and companionship before I went crazy or bankrupt, so I started making myself visible and accessible again. It didn’t take long for me to find out that the pickings were slim, and I didn’t know how

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rough it was “out there” until I found myself out there. But this time around, I was determined to learn how to tell the difference between the Real Thing and the Pretenders, and in the course of doing this, I spent many an evening with quite a few understudies. I call it trial and error. These New Men of the Nineties are scared of women like me. I thought if I was honest and told them what I wanted, then all the cards would be on the table. Silly me. All I did was tell a few of them I was interested in having a serious relationship because I wanted to get married and have a baby. They ran like mice. What was the big deal? I have always fantasized about what life would be like when I got married and had kids. I imagined it would be beautiful. I imagined it would be just like it was in the movies. We would fall hopelessly in love, and our wedding picture would get in Jet magazine. We would have a houseful of kids, because I hated being an only child. I would be a model mother. We would have an occasional fight, but we would always make up. And instead of drying up, our love would grow. We would be one hundred percent faithful to each other. People would envy us, wish they had what we had, and they’d ask us forty years later how we managed to beat the odds and still be so happy. I was this stupid for a long time. Lately, though, I’ve had to ask myself some pretty tough questions, like, What am I doing wrong? And why do I keep picking the wrong men to fall in love with? I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, to tell the truth, but I do know that one of my major weaknesses has always been pretty men with big dicks. And Russell definitely fit the bill. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get over this syndrome, but it’s hard, especially when that’s all you’re used to. I should’ve paid closer attention to what Linda Goodman and the Chinese astrologers have been saying all along. That I should stay away from Pisceans, Virgos, Aries, Libras, and Geminis. They’re a disturbed group. And forget about those

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Boars, Cocks, Dragons, and Rats. I’ve had it with men born under these signs, I don’t care how good they look or how big the bulge is in their pants. I’ve dated at least twenty or thirty of these weirdos, enough to notice similar patterns in their behavior, and it’s taken me a long time to gain this astrological insight: Pisceans are habitual liars, lazy, irresponsible, and have no willpower; Virgos are perfectionists, obsessive about everything, and freaks in bed; Aries are egomaniacs, narcissistic, and have run-for-your-life tempers, but they’re exquisite lovers; Libras are too sentimental and jealous, and so possessive you end up not wanting to sleep with them at all; and Geminis are boring as hell, but they think they’re deep, and I’ve never met one who could fuck. I can’t say I haven’t been tempted to take Russell back, especially since he’s been bugging me these last couple of months to do just that. He said he missed me something fierce and had mended his ways. But he couldn’t prove it. I admit that I made the mistake of letting him spend the night a few times during the siege of my first dry spell, but last week Gloria told me something that made me want to spit nails. Desiree, the girl down at Oasis Hair who does my weave, told Gloria she saw this woman named Carolyn driving Russell’s car, the car I basically bought him, and if she wasn’t mistaken, when she got out, the woman looked pregnant. I told Gloria that Russell wasn’t the only one in Phoenix who drove a black Z. “I know that,” she said, “but who else do you know whose license plates say SUAVE?” Now I knew I didn’t have dibs on him anymore, but I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so I left an urgent message for him at his job. He didn’t call me back until two days later. He said he didn’t know anybody named Carolyn. And as far as he knew, no woman was carrying his baby. But I knew he was lying through his teeth. I called him a lowlife, garbage-eating javelina and hung up on him. He called me right back and said he didn’t know who was spreading all these lies about him, but I could believe it if I wanted to.

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He said he was still interested in marrying me, as soon as he got his finances together, which he hoped would be sometime this year. And maybe we could work on having a baby too. But he sounded like a damn fool. He had humiliated me for too long and now embarrassed me no end. What I would like to do is give his ass to the dog pound so they could make soap out of him, or call the FBI and tell them he’s responsible for those ax murders I just read about in the paper. I wish there was some way I could give him life imprisonment, because he needs to be stopped. He needs to suffer for a while, long enough for him to realize that a woman’s love is a privilege and not his right. There’s no sense in me lying about it. I’m desperate. I haven’t been “out” with a man now in over a month. I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m still a good catch, but I can’t pass a mirror these days without staring at myself. All I do is look for new flaws, trying to forgive myself for not looking twenty-four anymore and apologizing for being a six instead of a ten. I know I’ve limited myself by only dealing with pretty boys, which is probably the main reason I’m going to the other extreme tonight. Right now I’m sitting here waiting for Michael, this man who’s coming over for dinner. Michael is not pretty, but he’s available. He’s also a half hour late, and you think he’s called? Maybe something happened to him. I hope nothing’s happened to him. This is our first date. We work at the same insurance company, but in different departments. To be honest, Michael never dredged up much in me until I’d gone through my old phone book and noticed that all the men I used to date had been crossed off: The ones who’d gotten married or moved or were so pitiful in bed that I didn’t have any other choice but to draw a line through their name. So when I saw Michael’s picture in our newsletter sitting at his desk, saying he’d been promoted to marketing rep, which was why I hadn’t seen him on the elevator lately, and it was

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clear that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring anymore, and since I’d just finished this assertiveness training seminar at Black Women on the Move, I decided to be assertive and sent him a note of congratulations. It couldn’t have been more than two hours after I’d put it in our interoffice mail that he called and invited me to lunch. In his office. Needless to say, I accepted his invitation without thinking of the consequences, because I’ve never dated anybody I worked with. Well, once, but he doesn’t count. Anyway, he had already ordered two turkey and Swiss sandwiches, diet Pepsis, and Doritos. I must admit that his presumptuousness turned me on in a weird sort of way. I like men who take control. His teeth were obviously all capped, so they were nice and white, and he had sleepy eyes, which some women would call sexy bedroom eyes, but he looked like he’d had too much to drink to me. I put him at about thirty-eight or thirty-nine, because he was starting to get those laugh lines when he wasn’t even laughing. Michael also had the shortest, fattest little hands I’d ever seen on any man, and I’ve heard all the stories about short men with thick fingers before, but there’s a whole lot of lies floating around in the world that have become myths that ignorant folks believe. I say make me a believer. After the small talk about his two diseased marriages, two consequential children, dialing-for-dollars divorces, office politics, and what have you, it was clear to me that he was what teenagers call a nerd. But when Michael leaned forward in his chair and said, “So tell me, Robin, why isn’t a beautiful woman such as yourself happily married?” he got my deepest attention, and all I could say was, “Because I haven’t met a man I want to marry yet.” I didn’t dare tell him the truth, that no one had ever asked me, and Russell’s phony little lightweight desperation plea doesn’t even count. I couldn’t believe Michael called me beautiful. “What about you, Michael? Do you think you’ll ever say ‘I do’ again?”

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“Certainly,” he said. “It’s not that marriage itself is bad; it’s the people we marry who give it a bad name.” Then he sort of chuckled. “I think I’m wiser now, so I’ll make a much better assessment the next time.” Assessment? Is that what you guys do, I thought, assess us? Well, if I had to assess him right now, on a scale of one to ten, I’d be generous in giving him a five. First of all, he’s definitely not my type. He’s light-skinned—pale when you get right down to it—and how about those freckles? His hair is that rusty reddish-brown, and he’s about two inches shorter than I am, which would make him a whopping five foot seven. He’s obviously not spending any time at the gym, because he’s leaning toward pudgy. But I will say one thing. That baritone voice and those juicy lips could tip the scale in his favor. So I had lunch with him again the next day, because he asked me. This time we went out to eat. Most men usually talk about themselves until you don’t have any questions left to ask, but not Michael. He was actually curious about me. “So, Robin,” he said. “Tell me a little more about yourself.” I had already told him that I graduated from ASU and majored in anthropology, that I grew up in Sierra Vista because my daddy was in the army, and that I was an only child. “What else do you want to know?” “How old are you?” “How old do you think I am?” “Twenty-seven. Twenty-nine at the most.” He got three points for that. “Thirty-five,” I said. “No kidding.” “No kidding,” I said. “Where’s your family?” “In Tucson.” “So at least you get to visit them.” “Yeah, I do, but it’s not all that pleasant. My parents’ve been through living hell these last few years. My mother had

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to have a double mastectomy, and then two years ago my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Robin. Is he still able to be at home?” “Yeah. Which is one reason why I try to get down there at least twice a month to help my mother out. He can’t do too much for himself anymore. Look, can we talk about something else?” “Okay,” he said, and took a sip of his coffee. “Do you have any hobbies?” “Hobbies?” “You know, things you like to do on a regular basis.” “I used to sew a lot, make quilts, but I don’t have much time for it anymore. I do collect black dolls, though.” “Really? What’s your favorite color?” “Orange.” “Favorite place?” “Hawaii.” “Fruit?” “Plums.” “Movie?” “I don’t know. What is this, Jeopardy?” He laughed. “I’m just trying to make getting to know you more fun, that’s all. If it bothers you, I can stop.” “No. Let me think. One of my favorite movies of all time was Body Heat, and I have to put Raging Bull in there and Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Michael smiled. I didn’t notice until now that he had a rather sexy, self-assured smile. “So do you have a steady?” he asked. How corny, I thought, but at least he wanted to know, and for that reason I thought it would be smart not to tell the truth. “Well, I’ve been seeing someone on a regular basis, if that’s what you mean, but how serious it is, I’m not sure yet. Why?”

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“I just wanted to know if I was walking in on something.” Had I opened a door and said, “Michael, come on in,” without knowing it, or was I projecting that hungry look? He looked me dead in the eye, and I noticed that his were a soft brown, the whites were milky white, and they were kind of dreamy. Maybe he had some other redeeming qualities that weren’t so visible to the naked eye. But enough already, Robin. The last thing you need is to get yourself all tangled up with a chubby little dweeb from the office. However, since he’d started this conversation on hobbies and what have you, I felt obligated to ask him. “So, Michael. Do you have any hobbies?” “As a matter of fact, I do. Drag racing, for one.” I almost choked on my diet Pepsi. Michael a drag racer? “And deep-sea fishing and scuba diving.” “Where do you do all of these things?” “Mexico. I also have a boat that I like to cruise around in when I can.” I swallowed hard. This was unreal. “Here in Phoenix?” “No; I keep it up in the White Mountains.” “You’re not making this up, are you, to impress me?” “There’s a whole lot of other things I’d be more inclined to lie about if I was just trying to impress you, Robin.” Then he started talking about the insurance business. He wanted to know how long I’d been in underwriting, but I didn’t want to talk about insurance, so finally I just interrupted him and came right on out and asked him. “When’s your birthday?” “June second,” he said, and sprinkled some salt on his french fries. “Why?” “I was just curious.” I found a slice of avocado in my salad, pierced my fork into it, and sighed. Another Gemini. By anybody else’s standards, Michael would be considered a good catch—as catches go. He appears to be intelligent, tries hard to be witty, has a good job, and hell, he’s available.

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So far he has been kind of charming and somewhat interesting and definitely a gentleman, which was a nice change of pace. I looked at him a few more minutes and didn’t feel any disgust whatsoever. If I’m lucky, maybe his rising and moon signs are in Scorpio or Aquarius. Should I go ahead and give Michael a chance? I asked myself. Should I just forget all about astrology and try not to judge the man before I get to know him? My questions were answered when I got to work the following morning and found a big bouquet of spring flowers on my desk. I hadn’t decided if I actually liked Michael or not, and when I decided that I did like him a little bit I couldn’t put my finger on why. I knew I wasn’t attracted to him physically, but maybe that’s what I needed: the kind of man every woman wouldn’t be drooling over. Somebody decent and ordinary. But shoot, he could still turn out to be another Pretender. However. There was one way to find out. So here I am, waiting. I’m wearing bright orange tonight because I had my color chart done and Sunanda told me to wear warm colors if I want to emit warmth. I do. I definitely do. But maybe this color is too strong for Michael. Maybe he’ll think I’m a hot number right off the bat and read me the wrong way. I ran into the bedroom and changed into a soft yellow sweater, then slipped a lace handkerchief into my skirt pocket. I was staring at myself in the mirror, trying to give myself approval, when Gloria and Bernadine popped into my mind. While I fastened all but the top three pearl buttons, I heard them cackling. They think I have poor taste in men (they despised Russell), and they also think I’m a nymphomaniac, which is why they jokingly refer to me as “the whore.” But they’re just envious. Bernadine has a husband she doesn’t want to fuck, and Gloria doesn’t know anybody who wants to fuck her. We fight like sisters, but I don’t know what I’d do without them. When my mother was in the hospital,

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Bernadine and Gloria were right there. And when we found out that Daddy had Alzheimer’s, my mother asked me when I could pay her back the three thousand dollars because they’d be needing that money real soon. Of course I didn’t know when I’d have it, so Bernadine just wrote me a check and told me to forget about it. And when me and Russell broke up, it was Bernadine and Gloria who dragged me out of this apartment and treated me to a Beauty Day at Canyon Ranch and called me every three hours to make sure I was holding up okay. They’re the ones who always send me flowers on my birthday, and we draw names at Christmas. They’re both older than I am, which is why they’re always offering me advice I don’t need. And by their account, you’d swear I’ve slept with half the men in Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe. But that’s not true. I’ve slept with my share, mind you, but hell, this valley is pretty small. I can’t deny that before I met Russell and right after I broke up with him I was a little generous in the loose-sex department. And I admit that I sometimes find myself at parties and other social functions where I can count how many of the men in the room I’ve slept with. Unfortunately, in some rare instances, more than one is aware of the other. It’s a small world. I really have no business getting involved with somebody from my office, now do I? Especially since Michael already told me he thinks my being an underwriter is great, based on how fast I’ve moved up in the company. But he just doesn’t know. I’m living from paycheck to paycheck and am scared to answer my phone sometimes because I know it might be the student-loan people. Since my daddy’s been sick, the money he and my mother had put away for their retirement is dwindling fast, and I’m not in any position right now to help them out. And they need help. Plus, I’m tired of working ten- and twelve-hour days. I’ll be the first to admit it: I would be content being a housewife if I could find the kind of man who wouldn’t treat me like one. I want to know what

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it feels like to be pampered, to not have to worry about how high the phone bill is or if the rent is going up. I would like to have at least two kids before menopause sets in. I don’t want to have to drag them to the Before School Program at seven-thirty in the morning and have to break my neck in rush hour to pick them up before six, like Bernadine and some of my other girlfriends do. Their kids spend more time away from home than they do at home. I’d also like to have some time to work on my quilting again and do laps and read books and take my kids to ballet or karate and piano lessons after school and still be home in time to grin in my husband’s face. I’d like to go to the gym and work out when everybody else is at work. Shoot, I’d like to do some charity work. Take weekend trips. And I’d love to be able to go to the grocery store any weekday afternoon I choose instead of on Saturday mornings. And I want to live in a house, because now that I owe the IRS every year, I don’t know when I’ll ever have enough money for a down payment. I just heard the doorbell. Before I answered it, I checked to make sure the flowers I bought myself with the card signed by a man I made up were prominently displayed. I want Michael to think he’s got some competition. I also took off Reba McEntire and put on Freddie Jackson. I’d already sprayed some Glade Spring Fresh throughout the whole apartment and sprinkled a few drops of Halston on all four of my pillows—just in case. I blotted my orange lips on a tissue so that when he kisses me it won’t be smeared all over his. I opened the door. “Hi,” he said. Michael looked taller, and he didn’t look quite so dorky, either. Why was that? I wondered. “Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was stuck in traffic and couldn’t call,” he said, and walked right past me. What about my kiss? His hair was different. It was slicked back and had little

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ripples of waves in it. Not bad, Michael. “I was getting worried that something had happened to you.” “Well, that was sweet,” he said, and walked over and sat down on the couch. “Something sure smells good.” I’d almost forgotten about dinner and had to think for a minute what I’d bought. Stuffed shells from the Price Club, smothered in Classico basil and tomato sauce, along with Italian bread sticks. I had two bottles of wine and had opened one. I made the spinach salad myself. “Your place is very nice,” he said. “Thank you, Michael.” “Beautiful flowers,” he said, touching a gladiola petal. Then he looked at me with a smile on his face and said, “So, Robin, did you buy these for yourself, or do I have some fierce competition out there?” He winked at me. “You don’t have to answer that,” he said. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “Starving.” I betcha, I thought, but I just said, “Good, then let’s eat!” We ate. And went through a bottle of wine before I even thought to pull out the Price Club cheesecake. Freddie Jackson was sounding even better, now that Michael and I were both feeling pretty mellow. “Dessert?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said, but before I could get up from the table to get the cheesecake, he said, “I’d like to taste you.” His bushy eyebrows moved up and down. “Me?” I said, unable to think of anything better. Michael got up from the table and took my hand, then led me to the couch. “You’re a great cook,” he said, and I just said thank you, because I felt like taking the credit. Before I knew it, he was kissing me. For such a short man, he had an awfully long tongue, and a wild one at that. I pulled away, then pressed my lips on the side of his and tried not to let the saliva running out the corners of my mouth distract me. I repositioned myself and went to put my tongue in his ear, but it was full

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of this hard hair that made me change my mind. I rested my chin on his shoulder and pressed my breasts against his chest. For a minute there, I thought I was hugging another woman. I felt these two soft spongelike things on his chest. So I backed away, unbuttoned his shirt, and put my hand inside, only to feel this fatty substance that should’ve been muscles on his chest. Michael was about a 38B. I was repulsed, but I couldn’t say anything, because he was kissing me again and pulling me down on top of him. When I looked at him, his eyes, of course, were closed, and I closed mine for different reasons: I was trying to pretend that he was Russell. But Michael was too soft. What had I gotten myself into? “You feel better than I thought you would,” he said. I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t think of anything to say. I would have loved to say, “Let go of me and go home and don’t come back, you tub of lard,” but you just can’t say that kind of thing without hurting somebody’s feelings. The next thing I knew, Michael was lifting me up and carrying me into the bedroom, just as I was entertaining the thought of how to stop him altogether, but once I saw the sweat beads popping off his temples and heard him panting like an asthmatic and what have you, I felt sort of sorry for him. So when my foot crashed into the bathroom door, I just said, “Wrong room,” and pointed to my bedroom. The room was dark, but after we got inside, he bumped into the bed and sort of dropped me on it. I whispered, “Just a minute,” and out of sheer habit, went to the bathroom and put in my Today sponge. When I came back, I lit my fat scented candle, and Michael was almost completely undressed, except for his boxer shorts. Since he didn’t look like he wanted to do it, I unbuttoned my own sweater and took off my bra. When I saw his eyes grow as big as saucers, I worried about my breasts. With his shorts still on, Michael slid under the covers before I got a chance to see what he had to offer.

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“I knew you were going to be beautiful all over,” he said, after I got under the covers. “And you smell so good.” He put his little fat hand over one of my breasts and squeezed. My nipples immediately deflated. “Do you have protection, or should I get it?” I asked. “Right here,” he said, pulling it from the side of the bed. He took his shorts off and threw them on the floor. Then he put his hands under the covers, and his shoulders started jerking, which meant he was having a rough time getting it on. “Do you need some help?” I asked. “No no no,” he said. “There.” He rolled over on top of me, and since I could no longer breathe, let alone move, I couldn’t show him how to get me in the mood. He started that slurpy kissing again, and I felt something slide inside me. At first I thought it was his finger, but no, his hands were on the headboard. Then he sort of pushed, and I was waiting for him to push again, so he could get it all the way in, but when he started moving, that’s when I realized it was. I was getting pissed off about now, but I tried to keep up with his little short movements, and just when I was getting used to his rhythm he started moving faster and faster and he squeezed me tight against his breasts and yelled, “God this is good!” and then all of his weight dropped on me. Was he for real? I just kind of lay there, thinking: Shit, I could’ve had a V-8. I mean, did he really think he just did something here? A few minutes went by, and he lifted himself up, looked me in the eye, and said, “I knew you were somebody special. How do you feel?” “About what?” I asked. “Me. This. Everything?” “I feel fine, except I feel like I could use a cigarette.” “I don’t mind a woman who smokes,” he said. I wanted to say, “Did anybody ask you?” but instead I said, “It was just a compliment. I don’t smoke,” then I got out of the bed and went into the kitchen to get myself an-

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other glass of wine. I drank the whole thing, poured another one, and went back and stood in the bedroom doorway and stared at this human submarine sandwich sitting in my bed. How am I going to get rid of you? I wondered. And God, am I going to have to face you at work too? “What are you thinking about?” he asked. He was smiling, of course. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “You know what?” he said. “No, what?” “I like you, I like you a lot.” “You don’t even know me, Michael.” “I like what I know so far.” “But you might not like me if you really got to know me.” “Tell me what you want, what you need.” “What?” He had this satisfied look on his face, like he had the goods on me or something. “What’s your fantasy?” “What are you talking about, Michael?” I took another sip of my wine and found myself walking over toward the bed, which I had had no intention of doing. For some reason, this didn’t feel real, it felt like . . . like a movie. I put my wineglass down and started running my hand through the few curls I had left, and all of a sudden I felt so sexy and aroused it was scary, because I was actually seeing myself outside myself, like I was on a big screen or something, and if I was, this is how I would act, this is what I’d do. So I licked my lips and looked down at Michael until he started to look like Russell, but then I remembered that I hated Russell. Denzel Washington would do, so I thought about him and gave him a wicked grin. The whole time I was rubbing my other hand up and down my thigh, and breathing so hard I could see my breasts rise and fall. This was just great. “I mean, ideally, what do you want from a man? What would you want a man to be able to do for you?”

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Michael was messing everything up, and I wished he would just be quiet. “Are you serious?” I said, snapping back to reality. “Very.” “Everything,” I said, trying to recapture my persona, but it was too late. It was gone. “Be more specific.” I looked at him sitting up in my bed and realized that this man was dead serious. I moved the glass from the night table and put it on the floor, then sat down at the foot of the bed and said, “Are you sure you want to hear this?” “It’s the reason I asked.” He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. For some weird reason, Michael was starting to look better. Why was that? I wondered. Since he was asking, I figured I should go ahead and tell the truth, because when I got right down to it, what did I have to lose? “I want to live in a house,” I heard myself say. “That’s easy enough.” “In Scottsdale.” “I own a house in Scottsdale.” “You do?” “Yep. What else?” “I’d like to go away for long weekends.” That’s when I felt his foot ease under my crotch through the sheet, and then his big toe pushed up and made a tent inside me. “What else?” “I’d like to be able to eat out at least once or twice a week.” “And?” “Get married and have a baby. Two or three.” “And?” “Quit my job until the kids are at least seven.” “What else?” “That’s enough for now, don’t you think?” “You don’t need much,” he said, and motioned for me.

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Now I was slippery where I should’ve been earlier, and I sat up and walked on my knees toward the rest of him. I looked down at Michael hard, then harder, and he smiled at me. He’s not that bad, I thought, and let’s face it, Robin, he is a good catch, and hell, he’s available. I lifted the covers and sat down on his now limp lump. Maybe I could get him to go on a diet. Maybe I could teach him how to fuck. How to use his tongue more efficiently. Maybe I could get him to go to a tanning salon, join the gym, and we could work out together. I could trim those hairs in his ears, couldn’t I? I slid my hand between his legs and touched what he obviously assumed was a lethal weapon. “I could sure get used to you,” he said. He put his arms around me and closed his eyes. Then he fell asleep. I was thinking about waking him up and making him go home, but for some stupid reason, I changed my mind. It felt good having a man in my bed, even if he wasn’t exactly my Dream Man. I fell asleep too, and when I woke up, I decided that I wasn’t letting him get out of here without at least giving me some iota of satisfaction. Too many of them get away with this shit as it is. So I rolled over, lifted my hips up, and reached underneath them until I found what I was looking for. I worked it until I got a rise out of it, then I sat down on it and pushed. “What do you want?” I asked Michael, staring down at him and massaging my breasts so he could at least see how it’s done. “I think I’ve found it,” he said, smiling. “How can you say that, Michael?” “Because I’ve been out here a long time, Robin, and I haven’t felt like this in years.” “Like what?” “This needed.” After that, he nuzzled me in his arms, and for a minute I let my head rest on the cushion that was his

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chest. “I can give you everything you want, everything you need, if you’ll let me,” he said. Without even thinking, I said, “Are you sure you know what you’re saying?” “I know exactly what I’m saying,” he said. “I’ve been watching you for three years. Waiting for this opportunity. So yes, I’m sure.” I was so flattered that I didn’t even realize what my body was doing. It pressed down hard and squirmed, then I leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “You want to make me happy right now?” “Yes, I do,” he said. “Really really happy?” “Really really happy,” he said. I leaned back and rocked forward again, this time gently pushing both nipples into his mouth. “You can start by sucking them gently and slowly.” And he did. And he did it right, and I felt like silk, and for the next few minutes Michael wasn’t fat or short or pale and I felt young and beautiful and sexy and desirable, and when I squeezed my pelvis and eyes real tight and my body exploded from the inside out, Michael felt just like the Real Thing and everything was just perfect. For once.

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arik!” “What?” “Turn that music down!” “What’d you say?” “I said turn that damn music down!” Gloria was yelling from the upstairs landing, right outside her bedroom doorway, where she was standing butt naked, and didn’t move until she could barely hear RunD.M.C. “Now would you please call the shop and tell Phillip I’m gonna be about twenty minutes late.” “Ma, why can’t you do it?” “Because I’m getting ready to take a shower, and look, Tarik, don’t give me a hard time today. Just do it!” “I’ll be glad when I’m old enough to get my own pad so I can stop being your slave.” “What did you say?” “Nothing.” Gloria swallowed her blood pressure pill dry, put her bathrobe on, tied it as far as it would go, and stormed downstairs. She was perspiring, mostly because she was about sixty pounds overweight. Tarik’s saxophone was hanging around his neck. She felt like strangling him with it, but instead she put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “Look. I don’t know where you’re getting this nasty little at-

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titude from, but you better get it corrected. Today. Is something bothering you, Tarik?” “Ma, why does something always have to be bothering me? I can’t find the phone.” “Forget it.” She walked over to the couch, flipped all four pillows over until she saw the portable. As always, he had been the last one to use it. She started punching the buttons on the phone so hard that her index finger slid between them, and she had to hang up and dial all over. “I know one thing—if you don’t watch the tone of your voice and change this attitude, the only way you’ll see Public Enemy is if they come to this house. And come Friday, if that report card looks anything like it did last time, you’ll be using Morse code to talk to all your little girlfriends until I see some improvement. Do I make myself clear?” Tarik, who was well over six feet tall, looked down at his mother and said, “I’m doing the best I can, but it’s never good enough, so why don’t you just go ahead and ground me now?” “Hello, Phillip?” “Gloria, sweetheart, what’s up?” “I’m running late. Would you check to see what time my first appointment is?” “Do not fret, honey. I’ve got everything under control. Sister Monroe already called and said she’d be a little late, and I told the old biddy if she had any errands to run, to take all the time she needed and go ahead and do ’em. Just kidding,” he said. “Bernadine had to cancel her eleven o’clock appointment. She said Onika was sick and she had to take her to the doctor this morning. And, honey, some drunk driver hit Gwen’s son on his motorcycle last night, but he’s okay. Just a few cuts and bruises. And if you ask me, I think they should outlaw those damn things, they’re too dangerous, and anybody in their—” “Phillip?” “Okay. I moved Sister Monroe into Bernadine’s slot.”

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Gloria looked at the clock above the fireplace. It was nine-fifteen. “What about Desiree? Is she there yet?” “Take a wild guess.” Gloria just shook her head. Desiree was starting to get on her nerves; she was always late, always backed up, and lately the customers had been complaining to Gloria about her. Gloria had hired her less than a year ago, because all of a sudden it seemed like half the black women in Phoenix wanted more hair, and Desiree specialized in weaves. So Gloria didn’t want to lose her; she brought in too much money. But with Joseph gone all this week, she’d been shorthanded. “Thanks, sugar,” she said, and hung up. “Tarik?” “Yeah, Ma.” “What?” “I mean, Yes, Ma.” “Look. Who was it that asked if he could drive his own car in his senior year?” “Me,” he said, lowering his head. “And who was it that’s gotten almost straight A’s for the last five years?” “Me.” “And now, all of a sudden, whose last two report cards had too many C’s, and a D plus in gym?” “Mine.” “So what am I supposed to think?” “Eleventh grade is harder, Ma.” “That’s horseshit, and you know it. Tarik, sit down for a minute.” “Do I have to?” “I said sit your behind down.” Tarik walked over to the sofa and picked up a peachcolored pillow and put it in his lap. “Put that pillow down.” He slung the pillow back where he’d gotten it and then looked bored. Gloria sat down in the leather chair opposite him and just

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looked at him for a minute. She wasn’t thinking about her shower now, or what time she’d make it into the shop. “At the rate you’re going, if you don’t hurry up and clean up your act, you may not see the inside of a college.” “So?” “So?” Gloria felt like slapping him across the room, but she hadn’t hit this boy since he was thirteen, when he started looking down at her and his hands were already twice the size of hers. “Oh, so now that you’re grown, you’ve decided you don’t want to go to college, is that it?” “I think I want to go into the navy.” “The what?” “The navy. What’s wrong with the navy?” “Nothing is wrong with the navy, but you still have to have a high school diploma. They don’t want any dummies in the navy.” “Oh, I get a couple of C’s and one lousy D, and now all of a sudden I’m a dummy?” “Did you hear me call you a dummy?” “No.” “You’re a smart boy, Tarik, and I don’t want to see you end up like some of these hoodlums out in the street. I just wanna know why your grades are going down.” “I just told you.” “Does your daddy’s coming here tonight have anything to do with why you’re being so testy?” “No.” “Then what’s bugging you?” “Nothing’s bugging me, Ma.” “Did he say something on the phone that upset you?” “No!” he said, and jumped up from the couch. “Look. I haven’t seen the man in two years and he calls and just decides he can fit me into his schedule and I’m supposed to stop everything because he wants to see me? For what? We don’t have anything to talk about, and it’s not me he wants to see; it’s you.”

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“That’s not true, and you know it. He didn’t have to call. He didn’t have to offer to take you to the Grand Canyon, but he did.” “Where did he sleep when he was here last time?” “You better watch your mouth. Where he slept was none of your business.” “He’s nothing but a pretty boy who can probably get any woman he wants. I hope you don’t think he wants you.” Gloria picked up the phone and threw it at him, but he was too quick. He ducked out of the way, then rolled his eyes at her and ran upstairs to his room. She heard his door slam. What was she supposed to do with this boy? For fifteen of his sixteen years, she couldn’t have asked for a better son. She should’ve never taken him out of that Christian school. Now he’s talking like a hoodlum, dressing like a hoodlum—the boy won’t wear shoes, he’s got at least seven or eight pairs of leather sneakers—and everything he wears is too big. All he listens to is rap music, as if there’s no other kind, and he wears two earrings in one ear and one of those flat-top haircuts with lines zigzagging all across the back of his head. She went upstairs and knocked on his door. “Tarik?” “Yes?” “Would you open this door for a minute, please?” “I can hear you.” “Open this damn door, Tarik.” Gloria, who swore only when she was mad, opened the door herself. “Look. I don’t like all this arguing we’ve been doing. Let’s call a truce.” “I’m not the one arguing, Ma. You’ve been jumping on my case about every little thing I do.” “I don’t mean to, and I’m sorry. But, Tarik, we used to talk about everything. We used to be just like friends. But you’re changing, and I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.” “I’m not changing, Ma. Look, if you want to talk, talk.” He was making this too hard. She took a deep breath and

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just blurted out what she was thinking. “Remember when we talked about drugs?” “What about drugs?” he asked, while he took off one pair of sneakers and changed into high-tops this time. “Remember when we talked about peer pressure?” “Yes.” “Didn’t we agree that if you ever felt inclined to try any, we would talk about it? You could come to me.” “Oh, so now I’m on drugs, right?” “I didn’t say that, Tarik. But I don’t know what to think. You’re acting so cocky, and your attitude’s getting—” “I’m not using any drugs, Ma. Believe me. I’m not that stupid. I wish you would give me some credit,” he said, and tied his thick shoestrings twice, then pulled the knots extra hard. “You’re doing something, and whatever it is, I hope you can talk to me or your father about it.” He bolted straight up and flung his arms into the air. “You don’t get it, do you? That man is not my father, he’s my daddy. If he was my father, he’da been here to help you take care of me. If he was my father, he’da done more than drop a check in the mail. He’da taken me to my baseball games, to the movies, somewhere—anywhere. I know a whole lot of dudes out here making babies and bragging about it. When Reverend Jones took all of us boys on that camping trip last year, he told us that anybody can make a baby but it takes a man to be a father. I see this bastard every two years, and I’m supposed to get excited? You get excited, Ma. Can I go to the arcade? Please?” She knew if she said no, as soon as she left he’d go anyway. “Just be back in the house by six.” “I will,” he said, and put his Walkman on. “Can I get ten dollars?” he asked. “Please?” Gloria got ten dollars out of her purse. “Thanks,” he said, and bent down and gave her the habitual kiss on the cheek. She was surprised that he’d done it, and relieved, as she watched him trot down the steps

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to a beat, his right arm punching the air rhythmically, while he talked or sang—whatever they called it. She walked back to her bedroom, switched on the ceiling fan, then went into her bathroom and turned on the shower. What was she going to do with this boy? She hoped he wasn’t messing around with drugs, especially that new one that’s out there: crack. It was treacherous. Too many of her regular customers had had some kind of tragedy happen in their family because of it. Gloria didn’t know what was in this stuff, but whatever it was had to be powerful, because it seemed like everybody who tried it got hooked. When she was growing up in Oakland, heroin was the culprit. But she didn’t remember heroin becoming an epidemic as fast as this crack mess was. And as usual, it seemed to love black people more than anybody else. As a matter of fact, the main reason she bought her house in this subdivision was because it was a safe, clean, middleclass neighborhood that happened to be predominantly white. But that’s what she felt she had to do to keep Tarik off the streets and get him into one of the best school districts in Phoenix, away from those schools that were already drugand gang-infested. Gloria took her robe off, put on her shower cap, and got in the shower. She would die if anything happened to this boy. She had been his mother for almost seventeen years. And for most of those years she had worried. She worried when he was late coming home and would sit by the phone, contemplating when to call the police, because she just knew he was dead, in a gutter, or on the side of a deserted highway somewhere. And she worried about whether or not she’d been doing a good job. She had introduced him to God a long time ago, but she still worried whether or not she had taught him the right things at the right time: manners, kindness, generosity, respect for others and respect for himself; pride in the color of his skin; how to eat at the dinner table and how to act in restaurants; why she’d refused to buy him

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any kind of guns except water guns; how to talk like he had some sense; how to stick up for himself and fight if talking didn’t work; and when he was hurting, she didn’t care if it was a scrape or a fall or his feelings, she had told him it was okay for him to cry and to ignore the little boys that called him a sissy. But she wasn’t sure if she’d done enough, or if she was doing it right. She wanted to be a good mother, wanted to expose Tarik to as many different kinds of cultural experiences as she could manage. When he showed an interest in music at seven, she gave him piano lessons; when his lungs got stronger and he said he wanted to learn how to play a horn, she bought him a clarinet; and in high school, he fell in love with the soprano saxophone, so she got him one. Over the years, it was when she watched him do little things—eating without spilling, tying his shoe for the first time, riding a two-wheeler, his first recital, his first nosebleed from a fight—it was during these moments that Gloria would become overwhelmed with the anxiety of being a mother, because it dawned on her that she was responsible for molding and shaping another human being’s life. And later, when she watched him make his first basket, his first touchdown, when she saw the first signs of hair on his chin and above his lip, when he backed her car out of the driveway the first time, Gloria developed a different kind of anxiety, the fear of knowing that she was the person who was preparing her son for manhood. What if she forgot something crucial? How would she know? And when would she know it? Who would tell her? And what if she was raising him to be a mama’s boy? She regretted all those years she let him sleep with her, but she couldn’t help it. Those first few years were lonely, after she moved out of her parents’ house and got her own apartment. Her bed was always cold. And Tarik’s little body was so warm, and when his tiny feet would rub against her leg, Gloria knew she wasn’t alone in this world. She was in her last year of college when she got pregnant.

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Most of her girlfriends who’d gotten “caught” had run straight to the abortion clinic, but Gloria couldn’t do that. She had been baptized Catholic, and even though she hardly ever went to church anymore, she knew she’d committed a major sin by having sexual intercourse before marriage; there was no way she could commit another. Her girlfriends tried to talk her into getting rid of the baby, telling her how safe and easy it was, and in this situation she shouldn’t worry about God, because she was the one who was going to have to take care of it. But Gloria was too scared. And decided that a child’s life wasn’t such a high price to pay for a sin. Her parents had insisted that she marry the father, but Gloria couldn’t do that, either. First of all, she hadn’t exactly been David’s girlfriend. She’d been out with him a few times—like half the other black girls on campus. And like them, Gloria had secretly craved him. But who wouldn’t, after watching his strong legs jump over those hurdles so fast that his blue-and-white jersey looked like a purple blur; David looked like a floating ballerina when he pole vaulted, a beautiful kangaroo when he broad jumped, and black lightning when he ran the 400. Gloria, who was one of the most striking girls on campus and, at that time, a perfect size nine, had prided herself on resisting David’s overtures for two years. She didn’t want to be part of his stable. And he seemed to like the chase. But finally she gave in and had coffee with him one afternoon; they went bowling and then to an early movie. When David asked if she’d be his date for one of the biggest frat parties, Gloria was so flattered to have been chosen, she went ahead and accepted. It was a wild night, so wild that she’d had four beers and two rum and Cokes, and she didn’t know what to think when she woke up the next morning in his dorm room. She was three months pregnant before she got the courage to tell him, and David was in shock. “Why didn’t you use something? And why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” he said, All she could say was, “I don’t know.” David, who was on a track and field scholarship, had been

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selected to participate in the ’72 Olympics. Gloria didn’t want to spoil his life or ruin his future because of her own mistake, her own negligence, so she asked if he would do her one favor: After the baby was born, would he just acknowledge that he was the father? She told him she would never ask him for anything except his whereabouts over the years, so that whenever the child was old enough, or curious enough, it would know how to find him. At first David was reluctant, but his parents had laid such a heavy guilt trip on him for being so irresponsible, he agreed to it. She had majored in theater arts, but Gloria couldn’t act to save her life. She yearned to do something involving the theater: set or costume design, lighting, or even stage makeup. After she graduated and had Tarik, Gloria couldn’t find a theater job anywhere in the Bay Area that would support her and a child, and by the time Tarik was three, he was severely asthmatic and had so many allergies he could hardly play outside. They were at their church’s Fourth of July picnic in 1975 when Gloria’s mother reached for a bowl of potato salad, dropped it on the grass, and said she felt dizzy. Like she was choking. Pearl suffered from high blood pressure and couldn’t seem to keep it under control. Before the ambulance made it to the site, she was dead. Gloria’s daddy was so distraught that a week after the funeral, he couldn’t stand being in that house alone and decided to drive down to Alabama, where his people were. Gloria told him she didn’t think it was a good idea, but he insisted the drive would do him good. On the way there, he fell asleep behind the wheel. His car overturned and crushed him. Shortly afterward, Gloria decided to leave California. She didn’t have any reason to stay there now. She picked Phoenix, not knowing anybody there and not caring. At least Tarik would be able to breathe. She sold her parents’ house, donated some of the money to their church, put the rest in the bank, and enrolled in cosmetology school. Gloria had always cut and styled and dyed the hair of half the women in her neighborhood anyway. It

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seemed as though doing hair was as dramatic as she was going to get. Over the next few years, David sent money and came to see Tarik a few times. Tarik’s asthma got less severe, and the allergy shots he had to get once a week helped, but he still couldn’t play in the grass, and his first furry pet, which was a rabbit, had to be his last. By the time he was five, Tarik had no memory of his daddy. David had suffered some kind of knee injury that prevented him from becoming a professional athlete; he had gone back to school, gotten his master’s degree, and become a physical therapist for other injured athletes. He lived in Seattle and was still single. He traveled year-round and only managed to see Tarik every couple of years. At six, Tarik started asking for a daddy. He had memorized how to say his prayers, and Gloria had always told him that if he wanted something special but reasonable, he should ask God for it; if God felt he deserved it—or he had earned it—He would answer the boy’s prayers. So Tarik started praying for a daddy—every single night. It broke Gloria’s heart just to listen to him. “Don’t worry,” she’d say. “One day, Mommy’ll get a husband, and you’ll have a daddy that lives with us.” “How come he’s not here yet?” he kept asking. “You have to give God time,” she’d say. By the time Tarik was seven, he had already lost some of his faith in God, since God hadn’t delivered. And that’s when he started asking Gloria for a baby sister or brother. She explained that she needed a husband first. “But you don’t got one now and you got me,” he said. She told him that it would be too hard having two kids and no husband, and then she’d look over at his bookshelf and pick out a book, he’d get excited, and that was the end of it, till the next time. Gloria had no idea how much her life revolved around her son, until he reached that age where he preferred play-

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ing with his friends instead of spending his free time with her. Which was when she learned that food was good company. Back then, it was Bernadine who told her she needed to get out of the house and branch out socially. But Gloria had lost her social skills, especially when it came to men. She didn’t know how to respond to them, so she treated them as if they were children; made herself indispensable and saw that their every need was taken care of. Gloria didn’t know a thing about protocol. She started with the phone calls. She didn’t wait for them to call or ask her out a second or third time; she solicited them. Volunteered her services: cooked them meals and would freeze them if they weren’t around to eat them; she would rearrange their furniture, clean their apartments, take their clothes to the cleaners and pick them up, and sometimes she even footed the bill for weekend getaways that she had suggested. She thought they would appreciate all these gestures, but the gestures scared most of them away. And by the time Tarik was nine, he was getting all his uncles mixed up. It took years for Gloria to realize that she was going about this all wrong. Robin, who Gloria knew wasn’t the wisest person to take advice from, made a valid point: “You can’t buy a man’s love.” But Gloria wanted to know what being in love felt like; she’d read about it in magazines, seen it on TV, heard Robin rant and rave about how good some man had made her feel and how Russell had made her toes curl. For a long time, Gloria waited for her toes to curl. But they never did. It finally got to the point where she got tired of waiting for love and divided all of her attention among God, hair, and her son. She also got fat. Food became her salvation, her elixir, her husband, and the orgasms she’d never had. She forgot all about men, forgot that she was still an attractive woman, and became a supermom. It was Gloria who took half the neighborhood boys to Little League and soccer practice, flag football, Boy Scout meetings, karate class, puppet shows, and

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Saturday afternoon movies. And when Tarik had sleepovers, she cooked. She always served his friends homemade waffles and blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and hot lunches: grilled cheese sandwiches and hamburgers and thick soup; and for any occasion she could think of, she baked pies and cakes and cookies. For years, Gloria’s house was full of children. But God and hair and kids turned out not to be enough. And Tarik grew up. And Gloria got fatter. Now it was clear that her reign as mother was almost over, because her “baby” would be out of high school next year and then he’d probably go away to college, not anybody’s navy. What was she going to do with herself then? How was she going to survive? And just how do you go about making a life for yourself when you’ve been socially crippled and emotionally bankrupt for years? As Gloria got out of the shower, she was thinking about what Tarik had said this morning: that David really wanted to see her. But Gloria knew that wasn’t true. When he was here last time, he had done her a favor by spending the night, because she had damn near begged him. He had done it out of pity, but she didn’t care. Though it was obvious that he hadn’t enjoyed it, Gloria was grateful that he had been kind enough to touch her. Grateful that after four years, somebody had finally touched her. As she dried herself off, she said a silent prayer that in spite of her weight, maybe he’d have some more mercy for her tonight. Gloria was coloring Sister Monroe’s hair Flame Red. “Could you leave it in a few minutes extra?” she asked. “The missionaries are going to Las Vegas next week, and I want to look extra good.” “Yes, ma’am,” Gloria said, and looked over at Phillip, who was cracking up. Sister Monroe, who was in her late fifties, was a true size twenty-two and wore three-and-ahalf-inch heels at least six out of seven days. Her shoe size

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was six and a half, and she looked like Little Lotta, but you couldn’t tell her she wasn’t fine, that she didn’t look thirty years old and a size fourteen. If so much as a strand of gray hair popped up through that whorish red Gloria’d been putting on her hair for the last four years, she’d run in for a touch-up. “Get this mess off my head,” she’d say, and wait hours if she didn’t have an appointment. Gloria’s rubber gloves were too tight, so she smeared the thick dye onto Sister Monroe’s roots as fast as she could, then asked her to sit at an empty dryer, so she could at least start pressing and curling little LaTisha, who’d already been waiting close to an hour. There were at least eight other women and men waiting; a few of them were asleep; the others were reading Jet, Ebony; Essence magazine, or an old National Enquirer that somebody had left. The reason people didn’t mind waiting was that Oasis Hair was one of the few black shops in Phoenix that had a consistent reputation for keeping up with all the latest hairstyles and techniques. Desiree, who did nothing but weaves, was her own best form of advertising. Somebody had made the mistake of telling her years before that she could be a model, and she’d never forgotten it. Even though she was clearly in her late late thirties, she wore miniskirts when her thighs should’ve told her it was too late, leggings and crop tops, with a thick belt of fat in between that apparently everybody could see except her. There was no such thing as too much makeup to Desiree, and no one knew how she did those weaves, considering how long her acrylics were. Cindy was much pleasanter to work with. At twenty-four, she was already divorced and taking care of three kids. She dressed as if she was going to a nine-to-five, which had always been her dream, and although she specialized in individual braids and cornrowing, her own hair was cut short. And no one seemed to care (considering how everybody was so paranoid about catching AIDS) that Gloria’s two best stylists—Phillip, whose hair was platinum, and Joseph, who wore black every

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single day of the year—were gay. Now she had two fulltime manicurists, since it seemed like everybody and their mother couldn’t live without acrylics or silk wraps. Gloria loved the atmosphere of her shop. The place was sort of funky chic—everything was silver, black, purple, and white—and full of hanging plants, all of which were fake. There were huge, colorful posters of black models, male and female, wearing the latest hairstyles. She sold custom-made costume jewelry, T-shirts she made in a class she’d taken, and Brown Sugar panty hose that nobody ever bought. Most of the people who came to her shop either knew each other or knew of each other, and Phillip and Joseph knew all the gossip—a.k.a. dirt—about all of them and usually kept everybody in stitches in the absence of that person on that day. Gloria also had a little TV in the back room, and when it was slow during the week, particularly on Wednesday, which was Senior Citizen Day, they dragged it out front so folks could watch the soaps and game shows. On weekends the shop felt more like a nightclub, because Phillip — who was in charge of entertainment — played nothing but music videos on BET, and Gloria served wine, which she was beginning to think was not such a good idea, because some of her customers were drunk by the time they got in the chair. “So did you hear about Bernadine?” Phillip now asked Gloria. He was combing Lustrasilk through Sandra’s hair. Sandra, who was LaTisha’s mama, looked in the mirror to watch Gloria’s face. “No, what? Sit up straight, baby,” Gloria said to a sinking LaTisha. “John left her, honey. Get ready for this: for a white girl!” “No, he didn’t.” “If you don’t want your neck burned, you better stop being so nosy and be still,” he said to Sandra, then turned to

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Gloria. “Would I lie about something like this? Tell her, Joseph.” Joseph, who was working at the station next to Cindy, was putting a male customer’s hair on rods for a Jheri-Kurl. “I saw her coming out of a Circle K in Scottsdale last Sunday, and the chile had on her bathrobe and was all messed up. I couldn’t believe it was Bernie—I mean, she was so out of it. Anyway, I asked her what was going on. I don’t know if you know it but she takes those pills sometimes for her nerves but anyway her speech was slurred and I was scared to death so I told her to drive slowly and I followed her home. She was smoking those disgusting cigarettes again, and she was doing so good, chile. Anyway, she told me that John left her for some white wench named Kathleen. His bookkeeper. And guess what? When we got to her house, the kids were watching cartoons, girl, and had been in the house all by themselves. Can you believe it? Does that tell you what shape our girlfriend was in? Anyway, I hung around there most of the day, fed those kids, made her sleep off them pills, and then called a cab when she woke up and acted like her head was back on straight. So,” he said, after a long sigh, “you just never know.” Gloria was shocked. So that’s probably why she canceled Onika’s appointment this morning. Bernadine was not only one of her best clients but one of her closest friends. They had met six years before, in church. Gloria was sitting next to her and couldn’t help but notice how dry and brittle Bernadine’s hair was. After the service, she asked Bernadine who did her hair, and Bernadine said she did it herself, so Gloria gave her her card and recommended that Bernadine let her give her a good conditioning. And when women sat in her chair, they usually told Gloria all their business. Bernadine was no exception. She had told Gloria how bored she was with her life, and especially with John, but all Gloria could think of was suggesting that she join Black Women

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on the Move, since Bernadine never mentioned anything about getting a divorce. “Do you think she’s okay?” Gloria asked. “Well,” Joseph said, “I haven’t talked to her since then, but hell, how would you feel if your husband just came home and told you he was leaving after a million years of marriage—for a white girl?” “I couldn’t imagine,” Gloria said. She put the last curl in LaTisha’s hair and picked up the phone. Sister Monroe cleared her throat about ten times. “I ain’t got all day, Gloria, and Lord knows I been patient. Now please get this stuff out of my hair before it goes up in flames for real.” “Just wait a minute,” Gloria said, and dialed Bernadine’s number. Phillip and Joseph put their heads down to hide their laughter. Desiree, who thought she was Miss Sophisticated, ignored all the conversations that went on, because she was “above” petty gossip. Cindy was listening too, but she never had any comments to make, one way or the other. It was no secret that Phillip and Joseph couldn’t stand Sister Monroe, because they thought she was a hypocrite. She was the only Pentecostal they knew whose missionary work always seemed to take her to Las Vegas. Bernadine’s answering machine came on. “Hey, girl, this is Gloria. What’s wrong with Onika? You know what that child’s hair looks like if she misses an appointment. Call me.” She didn’t want to make mention over the phone that she knew anything. After she hung up, she wanted to call Robin, but when she looked over at Sister Monroe, who was now fuming, she decided to wait. Tarik wasn’t home when she got there. It was almost seven. Before she put her purse down, she called Bernadine and got her machine again. “Look, Bernie. I hope you’re all right. Joseph told me what happened, so call me. I’m worried as hell about you, and I won’t be able to rest until I know you’re okay. So call me. I don’t care how late it is.”

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She called Robin next but got her machine too, so she asked if she’d talked to Bernadine and, regardless, to call her as soon as possible. It was urgent. David was supposed to be here around eight. She thought about dinner and realized it would be tacky not to have anything prepared if it turned out he was hungry. And there was Tarik to think about. But she didn’t feel like chopping, slicing, or dicing anything. Before Gloria heard about this business with Bernadine, she’d been praying all day that David would spend the night. But right now she didn’t care one way or the other. She just hoped nothing terrible had happened to her friend. She got up and went out to the freezer in the garage and pulled out some spaghetti sauce she’d made. She put it in the microwave to defrost, then went into her bedroom to make sure she looked okay. There were tiny hairs on her blouse, so she dusted them off. Her hair, which was dyed jet black and blunt cut, hung below her jawbone. If her face weren’t so fat, she’d cut it all off. Phillip always teased her. “So what if you’re a little on the heavy side, sweetheart. You’re still pretty. I’d kill for those cheekbones. So flaunt everything you’ve got.” Gloria looked at the picture of her and Tarik hanging on the wall. She had to have been a size twelve in that picture, and now she was an eighteen, although twenties felt better. She’d tried every diet on the face of the earth, but starving herself to death off and on for the last two years made her too miserable. It wasn’t worth the aggravation, so she stopped trying and accepted the fact that she was fat and was probably always going to be fat. Gloria was snacking on some cheese and crackers and washing it down with a sixteen-ounce tumbler of diet Pepsi when the phone rang. It was Robin. “What’s so urgent?” she asked. “Have you talked to Bernie?” Gloria said, and took a sip of her Pepsi.

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“Not since last week. Why?” “You don’t have any messages from her at all?” “No. Gloria, stop beating around the bush. What’s going on?” “John left her.” “Say that again.” “John left her.” “I told you he was an asshole, didn’t I?” “For a white woman.” “I know you’re lying, Gloria.” “I’m dead serious. And Joseph said he saw her last Sunday at a Circle K and she was so out of it that he had to drive her home, but nobody seems to have talked to her since. I wish I knew her mama’s last name; she lives out there in Sun City. Anyway, I’ve left two messages on her machine, but I haven’t heard from her yet.” “Well, I’ll keep trying her. I’ll call you as soon as I find out what’s going on. Wait a minute. Isn’t Tarik’s daddy coming tonight?” “He should be here soon, but where that son of mine is, Lord only knows.” “Look, call me after he leaves.” “I was hoping he doesn’t.” “Listen to Miss Frigid, would you? Well, if something weird has happened to Bernie, I’ll just have to interrupt you. You’ve waited a hundred years to get some, a few more minutes won’t kill you.” “Shut up, Robin. I just hope Bernie’s okay.” “Me too. Talk to you later.” After she hung up, Gloria walked outside to look for any sign of Tarik. None. She heard the timer for the sprinkler system come on, and found herself staring at the desert flowers and vegetation in her front yard: jumping cholla, ocotillo, prickly pear, organ pipes, purple and pink verbena, Mexican bird of paradise, and mesquite trees. She remem-

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bered when she used to think the colors of the desert were ugly, but now this yard looked like an oasis. She walked back into the house, put a pot of water on for the spaghetti, then made a salad. She was buttering the French bread when the phone rang again. She hoped it was Bernadine. “Ma, can I spend the night at Bryan’s?” “Don’t be ridiculous. Your daddy should be here any minute, so get your behind home. Now. I mean it, Tarik.” “I don’t want to see him.” “What?” “I said I don’t want to see him.” “Tarik, all you’re doing is making a bad situation worse. Don’t make me come over there. Put Bryan’s mother on the phone.” “She’s not here. And if you come over here, I’ll be gone by then.” “Why are you doing this, Tarik? What’s it proving?” “It’s proving that this man hasn’t been in my life for my whole life, so why’s he keep making special appearances and thinking I’m supposed to be so happy about it? What does he want from me? That’s what I want to know. I don’t know him and don’t want to know him.” He was quiet, and then he said, “I just hope he doesn’t spend the night.” So that’s what this was about. Now Gloria knew why he’d been acting so ugly all week. “Well, look, I don’t want to force you to see him, but why didn’t you tell him yourself?” “Because I couldn’t, Ma.” “Well,” she sighed, “go ahead, stay on over there. I’ll figure out something to tell him. But what about the plans he made for you tomorrow?” “Tell him to cancel them or go down to Big Brothers of America. They’re looking for stand-ins down there.” “Watch your mouth, Tarik.”

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“I’m sorry, Ma. And thanks for listening to me this time. Will you do me a favor?” “What’s that?” “Don’t have too nice an evening.” He hung up before she could answer. This was all her fault, really. All she ever wanted was for him to know who his father was. That’s all. Now she realized that it was causing more harm than good. She didn’t know what she was going to tell David. Gloria was stirring the spaghetti sauce when she heard a car pull into the driveway. She ran over to the sink and peeked through the miniblinds. He was still gorgeous, she thought, as she watched him get out of the car. Tarik was built just like him. Strong and muscular. Since she didn’t want to appear eager, she stepped away from the window. When the bell rang she counted to three before walking over to the door. She took a deep breath and opened the door slowly. “Hi, David,” she said. “Hello, Gloria,” he said, and gave her a weightless hug, then he walked over and sat down in a chair. “So how are you?” “I’m fine,” she said. “You’re looking healthy,” he said. She knew he meant fat, but she said, “Thanks,” anyway. He was wearing a navy-blue suit with a pale-pink shirt and what she knew was a silk tie and real lizard shoes. He was clean-shaven now — she’d never seen him without a mustache — and he looked like one of those men on the cover of GQ. “I must say your landscaping is stunning,” he said, and crossed, then uncrossed, his legs. He sounded so formal, she thought. No, it wasn’t formal. If she closed her eyes, she’d have sworn he was white. “Thank you,” she said.

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“So,” he said, and started drumming the arms of the chair, “where’s Tarik?” “He’s not here right now.” “Well, I can see that. When will he be back?” “I’m not sure.” “Didn’t you tell him what time I said I’d be here?” “Yes, I did.” “Is there a problem, Gloria?” “Well, he’s feeling a little awkward about seeing you.” “I’m feeling pretty awkward myself. I mean, I don’t even know why I continue to do this. I don’t know the boy, and he’s almost an adult now anyway.” David was obviously feeling uptight; Gloria saw his jawbone jumping. It also looked as if he was grinding his teeth. “I made spaghetti, if you’d like to have some dinner,” she said. Now she sounded like him. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry,” he said. His tone was strained, and it was clear that he was annoyed, but Gloria couldn’t much blame him. “Would you like a glass of wine?” “A glass of wine would be perfect. Exactly what time are you expecting him?” “Tomorrow,” she said, and darted toward the kitchen. “Wait a minute, Gloria. Did you say tomorrow?” “Yes,” she said. “Forget about the wine,” he said, and got up. Gloria turned around to face him. She had a mournful look on her face. “Are you leaving now?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay here.” “Here?” he said. “Well, I just thought, maybe, that because last time, well, I just thought that you’d like to stay with us.” “Look, Gloria. I might as well be honest with you.” “About what?” “About me.”

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“What about you?” “Do you remember what happened when I was here the last time?” “Of course I remember.” “Do you remember how I didn’t respond to you?” “Well, yes.” “Did you have any idea as to why?” “I thought it was because I’d put on so much weight.” “That was only part of it.” “Well, what was the other part?” she asked. “I’ve been bisexual for some years,” he said, and didn’t flinch. “You’ve been what?” “You heard me right. But I’m not anymore. I’m gay.” “You’re what?” “Don’t sound so shocked. You’re the last person I had to tell, and now it’s done.” “Look, you don’t have to go to this extreme just because you don’t want to spend the night. I understand.” “I don’t have to lie about this, Gloria. I’d been lying too long as it was, but I thought it was time you knew. By the way, I’m staying at the Biltmore,” he said, and walked toward the door. “If and when Tarik gets home, tell him where I am. If I don’t hear from him by noon, I’m checking out. I mean that literally and figuratively. When and if he ever wants to see me, he’ll have to make the next move.” He opened the door, started toward the car, and got in. Then, before he started the engine, he turned and looked at Gloria. There was no expression on his face at all. She watched the wheels of his rented blue Celebrity back out of her driveway, and her eyes followed that car until it turned the corner. The sprinkler clicked off. Gloria backed inside the doorway and closed the door. When she sat down, the top button of her blouse popped off, but she didn’t get up to find it. Because she couldn’t.

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fter Joseph left, Bernadine put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, packed the kids’ overnight bags, told them to get in the car, and headed for Sun City. “Why come we’re going to Granny’s?” Onika asked. “How come. Because Mama and Daddy are going on a trip.” “Why can’t we go?” John junior asked. “Because where we’re going is only for grownups.” “Can’t Auntie Robin baby-sit us?” “No, she can’t.” “I don’t want to go to Granny’s,” he said. “And why not?” “Because she’s too mean.” “She is not mean,” Bernadine said. “Yes she is.” “The only reason you think she’s mean is because she doesn’t let you do whatever you want to do.” “Uh uh. She yells at us all the time, doesn’t she, Onika?” “Not all the time,” Onika said. “She does too!” “Look. Your granny’s just got a heavy voice, and you might think she’s yelling, but she’s not.” “She won’t even let us play in the front yard.” “You’re not supposed to play in the front yard.” “Or the back.” 88

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“I don’t believe you.” “Uh huh. She won’t let us pick the oranges or the grapefruit, and she won’t even let us climb that big tree.” “The fruit’s not ripe yet. And that tree is dangerous.” “She makes us go to bed too early, and she doesn’t have Nintendo, and it’s boring at her house.” “That’s just too bad. So stop whining.” John junior let out a defeated sigh. Bernadine knew they were telling the truth. Her mother could be a bitch sometimes, but Geneva loved her grandchildren. She just had a strange way of showing it. After driving a school bus for twenty-eight years, she was sick of kids. Her grandchildren were the two exceptions, although sometimes Geneva had to remind herself that they were blood. “Ma, Onika doesn’t have her seat belt on.” “Onika, put your seat belt on.” Bernadine pushed the CD button for George Winston’s “Autumn.” She always played him when she needed to relax, but right now she couldn’t really appreciate the beauty of much of anything, let alone piano playing. She had forgotten to do something important, but she couldn’t remember what it was. “Ma, do we have to listen to that piano music again?” John junior asked. “No,” she said, and pressed it off. “Raffi, Raffi, Raffi!” Onika shouted. “Stop screaming. I can hear you,” she said. She was not in the mood for kiddie music, but what the hell. She sifted through a stack of tapes until she found it. John junior was now searching for Waldo. “There’s Waldo! I found him again, Ma!” Onika could never find Waldo, and John junior wouldn’t tell her where he was when he knew where Waldo was and she’d cry and Bernadine would have to threaten to take the book away and then he’d still only tell his sister if

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she was getting warm. But Where’s Waldo? kept them occupied when she drove. “Good, good, good,” she said to John junior. “Now let’s see how long we can be quiet.” One whole minute went by. “Mama, look! McDonald’s!” Onika yelled. “I’m hungry. And I want a toy. Can we have a Happy Meal, please, Mama, please?” “I’m hungry too,” said John junior. “But I just want McNuggets with barbecue sauce and french fries and a vanilla shake.” “All right, all right, all right. Now settle down.” Bernadine didn’t have time to put on her blinker. She turned the car into the entrance and whipped up to the drive-through window and gave her order. “Mama, can we eat it here? I wanna play on the balls,” Onika said. “I don’t want to eat it here. Inspector Gadget is coming on in a few minutes, Ma. Ma, can’t we eat it at Granny’s?” “Be quiet! We’re already at the drive-up window, I’m in a hurry, and I’m in no mood to sit. You will eat these Happy Meals in the car and enjoy them. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes,” Onika said. John junior didn’t answer but flipped the large page of his book. “There’s Waldo again!” When Bernadine handed the kids their boxes, she realized that Onika’s hair was a mess. She hadn’t combed it in two or three days, and the child looked wild. She wanted to let Gloria give the girl a perm, but John had refused to let her put any chemicals in his daughter’s hair. Onika had enough hair for two grown women. Her braids were long and thick. She was so tender-headed that when she even heard the word “hair” she’d start wailing. A few months ago, Bernadine had finally reached the point where she couldn’t stand the squirming and crying anymore and started letting Gloria wash it and run a warm comb through it every other

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Saturday morning. And now that John was gone, Saturday after next, which also happened to be Onika’s seventh birthday, she was getting this girl a perm. Bernadine was on the last long stretch that led to Sun City, a two-lane highway usually filled with old drivers who were afraid to do the speed limit. Traffic was backed up, and Bernadine went through two or three cigarettes just waiting to get to her turnoff, which was five miles up ahead. Thank God it was dinnertime, she thought. Sun City was a sterile place, where mostly retired people lived. For some reason, her mother loved it there. Right after Bernadine’s daddy died two years before, Geneva sold their home of forty-two years and bought a town house out here. She said she wanted to be near one of her children in case anything happened to her. Bernadine’s two brothers lived less than a fifteen-minute drive from Geneva. As usual, there were no people on her mother’s street. Not even so much as a leaf was on the sidewalk. The lawns, manicured to perfection, looked like green velvet. The palm trees all had bushy heads and were straight in a row. Not a single car was parked next to the curb, because it wasn’t allowed. Bernadine pulled in front of her mother’s town house and honked the horn. It was an adobe, a reddish-brown brick that looked as if it had been dipped in acid. All the houses on the block were identical. When her mother first moved here, the same white-haired white woman answered the door on three different occasions before Bernadine realized she had rung the wrong bell. Geneva came to the door and put her hands on her hips. As warm as it was, she was wearing a lavender jogging suit. It looked like she had on new glasses too. At sixty-four years old, if her hair hadn’t been completely silver, Geneva could probably have passed for fifty. There was hardly a wrinkle on her face. Last year, Bernadine had convinced her to stop dying and relaxing her hair, and now it was natural, curly

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and short. She’d always been a husky woman, so Geneva watched what she ate, walked a mile every other day, and went to a water aerobics class three times a week. She practically lived at the mall, and Bernadine was glad when somebody there finally showed her how to put her makeup on right. These days, Geneva always looked good. Bernadine found it truly amazing that her mother was betterlooking than she was. Wasn’t it usually the other way around? “Well, this is a surprise,” Geneva said. “What happened? You called and there was no answer?” “No,” Bernadine said, and got out of the car. The kids were already running toward the door. “Hi, Granny!” they both yelled. “Hello, my little dumplings. What’s wrong with this girl’s hair?” “I didn’t have time to comb it.” “You have time for everything else. You need to make time.” Bernadine didn’t want to get into it with her today. She was not in the mood and wanted to nip this in the bud now. Geneva was always finding fault with her parenting skills and brought it to Bernadine’s attention every opportunity she got. “Would you mind if the kids stayed with you for a few days?” she asked. “Where you going?” “Sedona. John and I are taking a little hiatus.” “How many days is a few?” “Four or five.” “And what are they supposed to do about school? You know I can’t drive that far two days in a row, let alone four.” “I’ll call the kids’ school and tell ’em they’ll be out for a few days.” “It’s Rodeo Days, Ma,” John junior said. “We only have three days of school next week.” Bernadine had forgotten, but that wasn’t what she was

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trying to remember. “Good. Then you guys can have the whole week off.” John junior jumped up and down, but Onika was clearly upset. “I wanna go to school,” she said. “Be quiet,” he said to her. “First grade isn’t a big deal.” “It is too, and I’m the Special Person this week.” “It’s week after next,” Bernadine corrected her. “Two days after your birthday.” “Is everything all right?” Geneva said to Bernadine. “Everything is fine. We just need a break.” “Now tell me again. Exactly what day are you planning on coming back?” “Late Friday or the first thing Saturday morning. Is that okay?” “My golf lesson is at eight on Saturday, and I won’t mind so much if I miss that, but don’t make me miss that bus to Laughlin. It leaves at ten sharp.” “You’re going to Laughlin again?” “Why not? Last time, I won ninety-three dollars. I have a good time in Laughlin.” “Believe me, Ma, I know. I’ll be back—I mean, we’ll be back long before your bus leaves.” Geneva gave her daughter a questioning look. “You coming in, or are you gonna stand out here and burn up?” “I think I should head back. I need to pack.” “Where’s John?” “He should be on his way home.” “You sure you’re gonna be able to stand being up there by yourselves for four whole days?” “Yes, Ma.” Bernadine knew what she meant. Her mother never liked John from day one. Geneva wasn’t one to bite her tongue and, a couple of years ago, came right out and told Bernadine that she let John control her too much. “Some women just let a man take over their mind. If you do that, what’s left? I’m just waiting for the day to come when you tell me you’re divorcing him. But knowing how he is,”

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Geneva had said, “I figure he’ll probably be the one to leave.” “Get away from those flowers,” she said now to John junior. “And come here.” He sauntered over to his granny, and she ran her hand roughly over his head. “You need a haircut. When was the last time your daddy took you to the barbershop?” “I don’t know,” he said. “Did you bring these kids something to wear?” Bernadine reached in the back seat and got Onika’s Barbie overnight case and John’s Spider-Man backpack. The kids ran over to the car and grabbed their respective bags. “All right, you two. I want you to behave, listen to your granny, do whatever she asks you to do, and don’t get on her nerves.” She bent down and gave them both a kiss. “I’ll see you in a few days. Love you.” “Bye,” they said, and ran back toward the house. “Stop that running,” Geneva yelled. Bernadine waved as she drove off. She popped Raffi out and put George Winston back on. The whole car smelled like barbecue sauce. She turned around; Onika had smeared it all over the back seat. French fries were on the floor, and those Happy Meal boxes were sitting side by side, next to a few loose McNuggets. Before she got on the freeway, she stopped at a Circle K and bought three more packs of Kools. It seemed as if it took her only a few minutes to get home, but it was closer to forty. When she got near her house, she reached up to the sun visor, pressed the Genie, and turned into her driveway as the garage door opened. She parked next to the Cherokee, which was next to John’s 1949 Ford, which he kept covered. Bernadine sat there listening to the car idle for five or six minutes. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel. She didn’t want to get out. Didn’t want to go into that house and face the empty rooms. But she had to. She wanted to know

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what being by herself was going to feel like. She started crying. Then stopped. Then she cried until her heart literally hurt. She took a napkin from the glove compartment, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and said, “Get out of this car.” She grabbed her purse, pressed the Genie again, and heard the garage door slam shut before she got inside the house. “Hello,” she yelled. The reply she got was her own echo, because the great room—the southwestern term for a gigantic room in the middle of the house that served as the living, dining, and family room—had brick walls, sixteen-foot ceilings, and thick concrete beams. She sat down on the couch, feeling the leather stick to her thighs, opened her purse, and got out her cigarettes. She lit one. And smoked it. Then she lit another one and slid the pack of Kools and the matchbook in her shorts pocket. Bernadine looked at the stone fireplace, which was almost big enough to stand in. There wasn’t a trace of ash in it. She scanned the entire room but then stopped. Everything was too goddamn perfect. She was tired of seeing it all, so she stood up and looked down, counting fourteen of the rustcolored tiles before she reached her bedroom. She shut the door, fell on the bed, kicked off her sandals, and closed her eyes, but they popped back open. She was staring at the ceiling. Bernadine saw the number 732. It wasn’t written on the ceiling; it was written in her mind. That was how many times John had told her they had made love. She remembered when the figure was 51, and how shocked she was that he’d actually been counting. But after a while, nothing he did surprised her. She couldn’t keep her eyes closed, because they weren’t tired. Feeling antsy, she got up and took a Xanax, came back out, and looked at the bookcase, which took up a whole wall. Close to a thousand books, most in alphabetical order, sat on the shelves. John insisted that this was the only way he’d know how to get his hands on a book if he wanted it. There was too much order in this damn house. Everything in

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the right place. She opened John’s closet. His shoes were all lined up nice and neat. His shirts were grouped by color: white, beige, light blue, pink. The suits were in order by designer, starting with Adolfo; sports jackets, trousers, ties too. He had a fit once when he discovered one of Bernadine’s blouses mixed in with his shirts. Now she found herself standing inside the closet, snatching his clothes off the hangers and letting them drop over her arm until she had so many she could hardly carry them. She left the bedroom, went through the great room, picked her keys up from the kitchen counter, and pressed the garagedoor button on the wall. She walked out into the driveway, dropped the pile of clothes on the pavement, went back into the garage, got behind the wheel of the BMW, rolled all the windows down, then backed the car out and away from the house. She opened the rear door and threw the pile of clothes on the seat. Bernadine made six more trips before all of John’s hangers were empty. At his side of the dresser, she opened the top drawer. His underwear was folded nice and neat, just the way he liked it. And she should know, because it was her job to make sure his sleeveless undershirts weren’t mixed up with the undershirts with sleeves. The V-necks not mixed up with the crew necks. Boxer shorts not mixed up with briefs. Socks were arranged from their opaqueness to their brightness. She put them all in a trash can and proceeded into the bathroom, where she threw every toiletry he owned—including his toothbrush and electric shaver—on top of the socks. When she came back out into the bedroom, she spotted an empty shopping bag, went over to the dresser, and pushed all his bottles of cologne inside it. She heard glass break. On this trip she ran through the garage, before the wet bottles could fall through the bottom. When she hit her baby toe on John junior’s roller racer, she remembered the shoes. Onika’s little red wagon was over in a corner, so she made three more trips and, on the last one, stopped to pick up a can of lighter

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fluid. She threw the shoes on the floor of the car, then squeezed at least half the can over the huge heap that had formed in the front and back seats. She pulled the wagon back into the garage, went into the laundry room, washed her hands, and walked outside again. Bernadine then reached into her pocket, got out a cigarette and the pack of matches. She struck the match, tossed it inside the front window, and stepped away from the car. On her way back, she struck another match and lit her cigarette. She heard the fire erupt but wasn’t interested in seeing it, so she pushed the garage-door button and returned to the house. When she got to the bedroom, Bernadine picked out a book—Almost Midnight—climbed back in bed, and finished her cigarette. She must have dozed off, but she heard the sirens. One of her nosy neighbors up the road had probably driven by, and thinking the car was going to explode, the way they always do on TV, called the fire department. But Bernadine hadn’t heard any explosion. When the doorbell rang, she got up to answer it. She peeked through the glass and saw a fireman standing there. After she opened the door, she smelled smoke. Hot metal. Burnt rubber. Fumes. But the car was still black and recognizable. “Ma’am, were you aware that your car was on fire?” Bernadine didn’t answer him. “Did you start this fire, ma’am?” Bernadine didn’t answer him. “Well, ma’am, it’s against the law to burn anything except small amounts of trash in your own yard.” “It is trash,” she said. “You know what I mean, ma’am. It should be in some kind of receptacle.” “I wasn’t aware that burning your own property on your own property was against the law.” “Yes, ma’am, it sure is. Why would you want to burn up a brand-new BMW?”

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Bernadine didn’t answer him. He looked at her apprehensively, because he knew exactly what she’d done. “Look,” he said. “This is a pretty nice neighborhood you live in, and one of your neighbors was kind enough to notify us, because they thought no one was at home.” “I’m grateful,” she said. “You know your insurance won’t cover this.” “I’m aware of that,” she said. “And it’s a good thing we got here in time, but there’s still considerable damage to the interior, as you can see.” He put his hand on his chin and rubbed it. Then sighed. “Would you do us and your neighbors a favor? The next time you want to set a fire, could you pick something smaller, less expensive, and do it a little more discreetly?” “It won’t happen again,” she said, and closed the door. The following morning, Bernadine made three phone calls. She called her office and told them there’d been a family emergency and she’d be out for the rest of the week. Her boss asked if there was any possible way she could make it in on Thursday, if only for a few hours, because the Langone property, which had been in escrow for the last twenty-eight days, was scheduled to close that afternoon. After all, they were her client, and she was the one who’d been instrumental in making this whole deal happen, and the Langone people were adamant in their request that she be at the closing. Bernadine said she was sorry, but somebody else would have to do it. She called Gloria, knowing she wouldn’t be home. Gloria always did her grocery shopping on Monday mornings, so Bernadine left a message. “I know Joseph told you what happened, but I’m all right. So don’t be worried about me. I’m going up to Sedona for a few days, and I’ll call you as soon as I get back. I mean it, I’m fine. A little shook up, but

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I’m fine.” Robin was at work, so she called her at home and basically left her the same message. Over the next four days, Bernadine did not leave the house. She read six books, none of which she could remember. She did not bathe, because she thought about how each and every time she and John had made love he’d made her shower first and sometimes afterward. She was sick of being clean. And the house. She’d kept it spotless for years, but for these four days, whatever she picked up, she left wherever she felt like leaving it. Newspapers were everywhere. Food that she’d decided not to eat after all filled the counters, alongside the box of Pop-Tarts John had left out. She watched TV and played the stereo at the same time. She even spent hours playing Nintendo. The phone had been ringing off the hook, but she didn’t dare answer it. Not yet. She didn’t feel like talking to anybody. Didn’t feel like explaining this shit. And what was there to explain? She had taken the last of her Xanax, and although she was entitled to another refill, she didn’t feel like going to get it. On Friday morning, Bernadine sprang up in bed and realized she’d been in the house for five days, had not bathed, had not brushed her teeth or combed her hair, had hardly eaten, and this bedroom smelled like a pigsty, and so did she. “I won’t let you reduce me to this,” she said out loud, and got up. The first thing she did was call AAA and have them come and tow the car away. Then she brushed her teeth, took a long shower, washed and conditioned her hair, and pulled it into a ponytail. She put on some clothes and fixed herself two soft-boiled eggs, grits, bacon, and toast. She ate all of it. When she walked back into the bedroom, she emptied the overflowing ashtray, threw the cigarette pack in the trash, but changed her mind and retrieved it. When she saw John’s jewelry box sitting on the dresser, she was mad that she’d forgotten to put it with the rest of his stuff. She spent all day cleaning because the housekeeper came

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only twice a month. When she finally dragged two giant trash bags into the garage, she looked around and saw so much junk—most of it John’s—that Bernadine had a brainstorm. She dropped both bags into the trash container, ran back to the house, got the number for the newspaper, and called the classified section. “I’d like to place an ad in tomorrow’s paper for a garage sale,” she said. “Yes, I have a credit card.” She gave them her Visa number, address, and phone number, and told the man how she wanted the ad to read: “Fantastic Estate Sale: Saturday Only. Eight to one. Bargains Galore! Scottsdale! Everything: $1.00. Come see for yourself!” The man asked if she really meant to say a dollar, and Bernadine said yes, and he said that he might just stop by himself. After she hung up, she dialed the number for Merry Maids, and told them she wanted to change her schedule to every week. The ceiling fan was spinning quietly, and as Bernadine sat on the stool, she remembered what she’d forgotten to do. She had meant to call Savannah and tell her that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for her to stay with them, but now she was glad she hadn’t called. She could use the company, especially the company of a good friend. Bernadine loved Gloria, and Robin too, but Savannah was the one person who would understand how she was feeling. She wouldn’t have to apologize for it. She was one of those glass-is-halffull people. Always was. Yeah, she thought, Savannah would definitely cheer her up. Bernadine grinned and looked at the calendar. She’ll be here about the twenty-sixth. Hallelujah. The message light on the answering machine was blinking like crazy, so Bernadine pressed Play. As it rewound, she knew most of the messages were probably from Gloria and Robin. And she was right. Robin volunteered to come and get the kids, and said she hated to say it, but she was glad the bastard was gone. “I know this may not be the best time to tell you, but girl, guess what? I met somebody. He’s so

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nice. And the complete opposite of Russell, that’s for sure. He’s not much in the looks department, he’s a little on the chubby side, and unfortunately he’s a Gemini, but so far he’s treating me the way a woman should be treated. So call me.” Bernadine chuckled. Robin with a man who wasn’t completely photographable? Please. And Gloria: “I still don’t believe this, but I’m glad to hear you’re all right. And don’t lie to me, Bernie. This isn’t something you take lightly, so let me know if you want me to come over there. By the way, you know you missed the Black Women’s Achievement Awards luncheon. I’ll tell you all about it. Anyway, the first advisory board meeting for Sisters’ Nite Out isn’t until sometime next month. I know you’ll be able to make that. You can bring your girlfriend. She is still coming, isn’t she? Call me as soon as you can.” Bernadine had forgotten all about the luncheon. Thank God the meeting was a long ways off. Sometimes all the petty gossip that went on made her sick: who’s making more money than whom, and who’s got a bigger house. But Black Women on the Move did take care of business, which was why she was still a member. She made herself a cappuccino, and while she steamed the milk, she couldn’t understand why she felt so relieved. She felt lighter, almost graceful. But then, when she really thought about it, she did understand. She was free. Free to do anything she pleased, the way she pleased. Once this mess was all resolved, she’d be able to start her catering business, or anything else she wanted. John had always made it sound like such a shaky idea, but now she didn’t have to consult John, did she? Bernadine was tingling when the phone rang, and without thinking, she answered it on the first ring. “You’re back?” her mother said. “Yep,” Bernadine said. “I was just about to call you.” “Did you have a good time?” “I had a lovely time.”

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“Good. And what time were you planning on picking these kids up?” “I was about to come get ’em now.” “Well, they’ve been begging for pizza all day, so I might as well take ’em. I’ll meet you back at the house. You’ve got your key, don’t you?” “It’s on my chain with the rest of my keys, Ma. I’ll be there in a half hour, but I can’t stay long.” “What you fixing to do now?” “We’re having a garage sale in the morning.” “You just don’t know what to do with yourself, do you?” “Ma, please. There’s so much stuff in the garage we don’t use, I figured this would be a good way to get rid of some of it.” “Knock yourself right on out, then. Anyway, I washed Onika’s hair and French-braided it, so you won’t have to be worrying about that for at least another week.” “Thank you, Ma. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she said, and went to get the keys to the Cherokee. After she brought the kids home, Bernadine had them help her get things ready for the next day. “Ma, why are we having a garage sale?” John junior asked. “Because your daddy doesn’t want any of this stuff anymore.” “Not even his golf clubs?” Onika asked. “Nope.” “What about these tennis rackets?” “Put those out here too,” Bernadine said. “Are we just selling Daddy’s stuff?” Onika asked. “Yes.” “Why come?” “How come. Because he asked me to.” “He did?” John junior said.

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“Yes, he did. He said he doesn’t want it anymore. And all it’s doing is collecting dust.” “Who gets to keep the money?” he asked. “We do,” Bernadine said. “Good,” he said. “Is Daddy going to help sell it too?” “No,” she said. “Is he on another trip?” Onika asked. “I guess you could say that,” Bernadine said, and left it at that. For now. It was 7:00 A.M. Bernadine looked out at the driveway. She had set up a card table and put all of John’s jewelry on it. She took the cover off his old Ford. The kids had taken turns bringing all one hundred and ten bottles of vintage wine out of the wine cellar and broken six or seven of them, but Bernadine told them not to worry about it. She got his Rossignol skis and his Salomon ski boots and poles and laid them down in the driveway. She took his eight-hundreddollar mountain bike and put it out there too. She got his power tools, most of which had never been used, and set them next to the skis. She sorted through the winter storage closet, which was also in the garage, and took all his good wool suits and cashmere coats, which he hadn’t worn since they lived in Philadelphia, and laid them side by side on a king-size sheet. When it seemed like she had everything he cherished, everything he would miss, out on the pavement, she sat down in one of the card-table chairs, smoked a cigarette, and waited. Folks started arriving about seven-thirty. They acted as if they’d won the lottery or something. Some squealed. Some thought surely Bernadine was off her rocker, especially when a man handed her four quarters for John’s antique car and she handed him the pink slip and he drove it away. By ten minutes after nine, Bernadine had made a hundred and sixty-eight dollars, and the driveway was empty, except for the card table, which wasn’t for sale. The kids were so ex-

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cited that they asked if they could have another one next week. Did Daddy have anything else he wanted to sell? She told them no, that this about covered everything. Bernadine had a smile on her face a mile wide. When the kids dragged the table back into the garage, she told them to go on in the house, divide up the money, and put it in their banks. She was standing on a puddle of old oil, in the space where the Ford used to be. Now the kids would have some room to play. As she wiped her feet on the doormat, she said out loud: “Since you want to start a new life, motherfucker, see what starting from scratch feels like.” She pushed the garage-door button, but this time Bernadine watched it close.

Fat

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loria hardly slept a wink. The last time she looked at the clock, it had said 5:36. It was after ten when she woke up. She checked Tarik’s room, saw that he wasn’t home yet, and since she still hadn’t heard from Bernadine or Robin, decided to do something she hadn’t done in a while: go to church. She got there late and had to sit in the back. She dozed off in no time. The sermon was boring, because the guest minister couldn’t preach. Gloria dreamed she was in church, and a woman she didn’t know had to nudge her to tell her the service was over. It was on the drive home that she decided not to tell Tarik about David. The garage door had come off the hinges again, which meant it wouldn’t open, so Gloria parked in front of the house. Tarik’s saxophone was hanging over the corner of the downstairs bathroom door. His dirty sneakers were lying on their sides. She went upstairs to change her clothes, heard him in his bathroom, and came back downstairs and started dinner. Last night, after David left, she had poured the spaghetti sauce down the garbage disposal, broken the French bread into bite-size pieces, and pushed it down there too. That was all she could manage. The salad was still sitting in the bowl on the counter, the lettuce dark green and soggy. She dumped it down the drain now, then took the thawed-out liver from the refrigerator and seasoned it. She was flouring the last piece when Tarik entered the doorway. 105

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He was wearing green sweatpants and a white turtleneck. He held the Sunday paper under his arm. “I’m sorry, Ma,” he said. “You don’t have to be sorry,” Gloria said, and dropped a piece of liver into the skillet. “It’s over. Done. Finished.” “Was he mad?” “No, he wasn’t mad. Just disappointed. He’ll get over it.” “Did he spend the night?” Gloria gave him a piercing look. “No, he did not.” “Good,” and he sat down at the table, opened the paper, took out the sports section, and started reading. “Did anybody call?” she asked him now. “Yep.” Gloria stopped moving. “Bernadine?” “Nope. But Miss Robin called and said she went by Miss Bernadine’s and nobody was home. She said she was driving down to Tucson to spend the day with her parents. That lady from your women’s group called, but I forgot her name ’cause she was talking so fast I couldn’t hardly write everything down. She said some meeting about some sisters is being postponed until April fifth, and she said she hopes you wanna chair some exhibit committee again this year and to start thinking about a theme for something. I forget. Oh. And Phillip called and said he thinks he’s got the stomach flu and may not be in on Tuesday. Depending.” “That’s it?” “Yep.” “So how was your night at Bryan’s?” “I didn’t spend the night at Bryan’s.” Gloria dropped a piece of liver on the floor and left it there. “You didn’t what?” “I spent the night at Terrence’s.” “You asked me if you could spend the night with Bryan.” “No, I didn’t, Ma. I said I was at Bryan’s, but I wanted to spend the night with Terrence.” “Are you trying to tell me I’m crazy or something?”

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“No, Ma. You’re just not remembering right.” “Look, boy. You said Bryan, or my name ain’t Gloria.” She bent over to pick up the liver and, when she did, got a sharp pain in her chest. Gas, she thought. “Come here,” she said, ushering him with her index finger. Tarik walked in front of her and looked down. “Do I look like a fool?” “No.” “I was a teenager myself not too long ago. What’s Terrence’s sister’s name?” “Felicia.” “That’s the one you’ve got a crush on. Now tell me I’m wrong.” “You’re dead wrong, Ma. I can’t stand that girl. She’s whacked.” “You mean she’s on drugs?” “No. It means she’s a no go. Ill. As in ugly.” “I’ve seen that girl before. And she is not ugly.” But she knew what he meant. Felicia was fat. When Gloria first started putting on weight, every time a new diet came on TV, Tarik would drop hints. “Look how skinny that lady is now, Ma. Why don’t you try that one?” Gloria had ordered so many $19.95, $79.95, and $129.95 diets that she turned into a bitch and almost drove the boy crazy, trying to function on liquid food, no food, tiny portions of food, and stuff that didn’t look like food. One day, Gloria just got pissed and told him to buzz off. “I’m not a goddamn whale,” she said. “When I get up to a size twenty like Sister Monroe, that’s when you can talk about me. But for now, keep your mouth shut.” When she got up to a size eighteen, every now and then she’d accidentally lose five or six pounds, and she’d mention it to Tarik. “That’s great, Ma,” he’d say. Gloria knew she embarrassed him, because one time he came right out and asked her if she just had to wear her dresses so tight, with her boobs pushing all out like that. How did she ever expect to find him a father or get a husband, being so fat?

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Hadn’t she noticed that since she got this big, the men stopped coming around? In church, Tarik looked for men who weren’t wearing wedding bands, hoping Gloria would introduce herself, but no one except deacons’ wives ever paid her much attention. “Don’t you get tired of going out with your girlfriends?” he asked her. And sometimes Tarik looked at her with pity. “You’re too pretty to be this fat, Ma,” he’d say. “I wish you could look like you used to.” All Gloria could say was that even if she lost a hundred pounds, she could never look the way she used to. “Tell me something else,” she said to him now. “Why is it that it’s damn near ninety degrees outside and you’re wearing a turtleneck?” Before he had a chance to answer, Gloria reached up and pulled the neck of his shirt down toward his shoulder. Sure enough, two round strawberries were engraved on Tarik’s neck. “Did Terrence do this to you?” Tarik dropped his head and stepped backward, bumping into a chair at the kitchen table. “No,” he mumbled. “Speak up; I can’t hear you.” “No,” he said clearly. “Tarik. Sit down. And don’t say two words to me until I tell you to.” He looked at the clock. It was two-thirty. “Ma, I’m supposed to meet my homeboys on the court at three.” “That’s not my problem, is it?” she said, and went on about her business. It took Gloria four minutes to put the rest of the liver in the skillet, switch the dial from high to medium, get two pots out of the cabinet, measure the water, and stir in some rice. Tarik watched his mother’s behind jiggle as she shook the frozen vegetables from the bag, and when she bent down to put the biscuits in the oven, the skirt she had on looked as if it was busting at the seams. “So,” Gloria finally said, as she sat down at the table. “Are you having sex these days?” “Sort of,” Tarik said, and pushed the newspaper aside. “Sort of?”

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“Yes.” “Since when?” “Ma . . .” “Ma, my ass. Since when?” “Since last summer.” Gloria thought about that. It was the middle of February. Damn. She pushed the chair away from the table and went to turn the air conditioner up, because the oven was making the room too warm. Her thighs kept sticking together as she walked. She turned the thermostat to seventy degrees, then stood there for a minute. Her baby was fucking? That’s probably why his grades have dropped, she thought, and wanted to chuckle but didn’t dare. He’s pussy-whipped. Coming had affected the boy’s brain. They’re all alike, she thought, as she wiped the smirk off her face, did a quick squat so her thighs could breathe, turned the corner, and sat back down. “Do you think you know what you’re doing?” “I think so,” he said, and tried not to grin. “Oh, you do, do you? Look. It’s been a while since we talked about this, Tarik, and I never really expected you to come up to me one day and say, ‘Yo, Ma, I’m doing the wild thang now,’ but my Lord, Tarik. This is just one reason why I’ve always wanted you to have a father. Let me ask you something. And don’t lie to me. Are you using condoms?” “Most of the time.” Another gas pain shot through her rib cage and settled in her heart. She took a breath, then exhaled. Gloria eased out of the chair, got the Pepto-Bismol from the refrigerator, and took two tablespoonfuls. The liver was sizzling, and the rice was about to boil over, but Gloria couldn’t move another inch until this pain passed. She leaned on the countertop for support. “Most of the time?” “All the time,” he said. “Are you all right, Ma?” “It’s just indigestion. I’ll be all right in a minute. Don’t lie to me, Tarik. You can’t lie about this kind of stuff.”

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“All right, all right. Most of the time,” he said, and stretched his long legs out. “Most of the time isn’t good enough, and you know it. You know how many diseases there are out in the streets these days?” “Yeah, but, Ma, I don’t mess with those kind of girls.” “Those kind of girls? Anybody can get VD. I’ve had it.” Tarik looked at his mama in total disbelief. “And now there’s AIDS. You young people may think you’re immune, but this is one disease that can kill your black ass.” “I know, Ma.” “You ever heard of crabs?” “Crabs? Yeah, you eat ’em?” “You don’t want to eat these,” she said. The pain had started to let up, so Gloria sat back down. “Half of these young girls out here don’t know when to change their Tampax, let alone what the word ‘douche’ means.” “What does it mean?” “A douche? Ask one of them to explain it to you. How many?” “How many what?” “How many have you slept with?” “I haven’t slept with anybody.” “Don’t get cute with me, Tarik.” “Nine.” “Nine! Nine different girls? Just since last summer?” “That’s not a lot. You should see how much action most of my homeboys get.” “I don’t give a damn what your ‘homeboys’ are getting. It’s you I’m concerned about. I want you to listen to me, and you listen to me good. You do not— you understand me— you do not walk out of this house from this day forward without your house key and a condom in your wallet. Do you understand me?” “Yes.”

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“And you do not, under any circumstances, believe a damn word any of these sweet little innocent girls tell you when they say they’re using something.” “But they are.” “How do you know that?” “Because they’re all on the pill.” “You can believe that shit if you want to, but, Tarik”— she took her first smooth breath; the Pepto-Bismol had worked—“listen to me. You’re a handsome young man. Until recently, you were a straight-A student. You’re a decent athlete, a fine saxophonist, and I’d like to think you’ve got a future—and I’m not talking about this navy business, either. This phone rings off the hook with nothin’ but girls on the other end, and I’m not saying anything is wrong with that. I’m not saying having sex at your age is wrong, either. But some of these teenage girls are dizzy as hell, their mamas don’t teach them anything, and some of them don’t think any further than today, let alone tomorrow. That includes you and whatever it is you’re doing that you think is so great between their legs. Having sex without any protection makes babies. Get it? Like one plus one equals two. For some of these girls, the only thing in their future is a baby. And Lord knows you could make some pretty ones. I just don’t want you to be so naive and take their word for it when they tell you they’re on the pill or any nonsense like that. You protect yourself, you hear me?” “Yes, Ma.” “I don’t care if they’re using a diaphragm, the pill, that damn sponge, and foam all together— you put your business on regardless. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, Ma.” “So back to one of my original questions. Did Terrence put that hickey on your neck?” Gloria was laughing now. “No,” he said, blushing, then he started laughing too. “Then who did?” “Michelle.”

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“Michelle?! That itty-bitty white girl who lives two doors down?” “You asked, so I’m telling you.” “You mean to tell me you’re screwing a white girl?” “What’s wrong with that?” Gloria had to think about how to answer this one. The first thing that popped into her head was Bernadine and John. Was this shit catchy or what? In the seventies, when she was still living in Oakland, everywhere she went she saw black men with white women on their arms. Back then, the men seemed to be doing it more to prove a point. Then things cooled down for a few years. Now Gloria was wondering if “our” men were running to white women again because we were doing something wrong? Her son wasn’t even a man yet, and he was already on his way. What was the deal here? Did white women have something we didn’t? Were they doing something to these boys and men that we couldn’t? “Look,” she said. “All I’m saying is that I just assumed when you started liking girls that they would be black.” “This is the nineties, Ma. What have they been teaching us in church all these years? Didn’t Reverend Jones say that people should like each other because they like each other, not because of the color of their skin?” Gloria said, “That’s true. But look. I don’t have anything against most white folks, and who you like is your business. I want you to know that. If I had a real problem with ’em, we wouldn’t be living in this neighborhood. Do you like this girl?” “She’s pretty def.” “Wait. Don’t tell me. I know the girl can hear, so I suppose this means you like her.” “She’s all right.” “Are there any black girls you like?” “A few.” “But you like white girls better?”

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“I like this one.” “Why?” “Ma, what is this, the third degree or something? I just said I liked her. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing is wrong with it, Tarik, but how old is this girl?” “Her name is Michelle.” “Whatever. How old is she?” “Eighteen.” “Eighteen! You’re only sixteen.” “Sixteen and a half. So what?” “Doesn’t she go to your school?” “Yeah.” “I hope she’s a senior.” “She is. But what difference does age make, Ma?” “None, Tarik. None. But I bet her parents don’t know you’re tiptoeing over their house at night, do they?” “Yeah, they do.” “Do I look like a complete fool to you? Don’t answer that. Just let me say this and get it over with. If I ever hear from her parents that they’ve busted your black ass in their house in bed with their daughter, that’ll be the end of it, do you understand me?” “Yes, Ma.” “Tarik, all I’m trying to say is there’s a right way to do things, and there’s a sleazy way to do things. If you don’t know it, it’s called discretion.” “I’m always careful, believe me. I don’t want to get caught.” “You’ve already been caught.” “I don’t mean like this.” “You just better watch your step and be careful where you put that thing.” “I am, Ma.” “Tarik?”

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“Yes, Ma?” He was looking at the clock now. Three o’clock had come and gone. “I hope you don’t get any happier about this newly discovered feeling than you obviously have already, ’cause I don’t want to see you bringing home any more C’s and, Lord, please not another D. Can you promise me you’ll try to concentrate on one thing at a time?” “Yes, Ma.” “And believe me: If somebody ever comes knocking on this door telling me their daughter’s pregnant by my son, it’ll not only break my heart but it’ll mess up everything for you, everything I’ve tried to do for you. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Tarik?” “Yes, Ma.” “Do you hear what I’m saying?” “I do, Ma. And I promise. I’ll be extra careful, and you’ll see, my grades’ll improve. I guarantee it.” “Thank you,” she said, and got up. “Thank you. Now let’s eat.” Tarik and Gloria agreed that the liver and rice and mixed vegetables and biscuits were good. After he emptied the trash, Tarik went upstairs to his room, and Gloria heard him playing his horn. He always left his door open, because he knew she loved to hear him play. She was putting the leftovers into plastic containers, stacking them inside the refrigerator. She scraped the gravy off the plates, rinsed out the pots and pans, and put them in the dishwasher. While she poured the detergent in, Gloria was thinking about what Tarik had told her. She was wondering what kind of lover her son could possibly be at sixteen and a half years old. Shaking her head from side to side, she pressed the On button and heard the water spraying out. She put her elbows on the counter and crossed her arms. Through the window she could see that For Sale sign in the front yard of the house across the street. It had been there forever. Gloria dropped

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her chin in the palm of her right hand. After a while, she couldn’t see that house or that sign. She was trying to picture her son on top of some girl, with his clothes off, giving her pleasure. She hated to admit it, but she envied him. She stayed there for another ten minutes, staring at the glare on the glass. But now Gloria was thinking about Gloria. Wondering if she’d ever get a chance to welcome a man into her life. If she’d ever get a chance to say “I love you” or if somebody would ever say it to her. She didn’t even want to think about the area between her legs.

Interstate Lust

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was all set to let the phone ring, because here it is two days before I’m supposed to be moving, and the girlfriend who had promised to help me drive just flaked out on me. Her boyfriend waits until this morning to tell her he doesn’t think it’s such a good idea. And to top it off, the sale of my condo fell through, so for now I’m stuck with this damn place. “Hello,” I said in a hostile voice. “Savannah?” “Who is this?” I asked, even nastier. “This is Lionel, but if I’ve caught you at a bad time, I can call back a little later.” “Lionel?” “Have you forgotten me already?” “No. I’m sorry for yelling. It’s been a rough day.” “Well, I was trying to catch you before you left. I wanted to take you out to dinner, since you disappeared on me so fast New Year’s Eve.” “I just had another party to go to, and I wanted to get there before midnight.” “Well, can I at least take you out for a farewell dinner?” “The movers’ll be here tomorrow, and I was just on my way out to get something.” “Can I meet you somewhere?” 116

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Why not? I thought. “Do you know where Yamashita’s is?” “Yep.” “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” “I’ll see you in fifteen.” I was sitting at a table by the window when he walked past. I waved and smiled. Steam was jutting out of the tea spout, but I decided to wait until Lionel sat down before I had some. “So hello and goodbye,” he said, and took off his coat and gloves. Before he sat down, he rubbed his hands together. “Hi, Lionel,” I said. “I could use some of that tea to warm me up,” he said. I wanted to say I could warm you up faster than some Japanese tea, but instead I said something deeper. “It is freezing out there.” Then I poured us both a cup. “So are you all set to go?” he asked. “Sort of. This girlfriend of mine who volunteered to help me drive can’t go now.” “Does that mean you’re driving by yourself?” “It looks that way. I mean, I can do it. I just wasn’t prepared to drive a thousand miles by myself.” “I’ll help you.” I almost choked on the tea. “What did you say?” “I said I’ll help you. It shouldn’t take more than sixteen, seventeen hours.” “But you don’t even know me, Lionel. And I don’t know you.” “Well, from what Paul told me, and from what I’ve seen, you seem like a pretty nice lady. I give you my word, I’m not a serial killer or a rapist,” he said, and held up his hand like a Boy Scout. “Look, I really appreciate this offer, but do you realize what you’re saying?” “I do.”

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“But what about work?” “I work for myself.” I swallowed my tea and started playing with my chopsticks. Hell, it might just be fun. Sharing a drive this long with a real man. It’s not like he’s a complete stranger. I mean, after all, my brother-in-law knows him. Right? “Are you sure about this?” “I’m positive,” he said, and brought his little cup to his mouth and drank it in one swallow. “Don’t you sell fire trucks?” “No no no no no. I haven’t done that in five years. I import all kinds of doodads and trinkets from Korea and Japan, but I’m working on some other things too.” “Well, let me say this, Lionel. I could fly you back to Denver the same day if you need to get back.” “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to see Phoenix. I’ve never been to Arizona, so I might just take a few days and check the place out. I’ve heard a lot about this place called Sedona. And hey,” he said, leaning forward, “let’s play it by ear.” He looked at me like it was all settled, then at the menu, and said, “So what’re you gonna have?” I wanted to say that what I wanted wasn’t on the menu, but I ordered ginger beef, and Lionel said he didn’t eat red meat, so he ordered vegetarian tempura. While we waited for our food, we talked about how great it was that after twenty-seven years, Nelson Mandela had finally been released from prison yesterday. We spent an hour talking about apartheid in general, and then we lightened up the conversation and talked about how boring Denver was. By this time, it had registered that in two days this man was going to be sitting next to me in my Celica for one whole thousand miles of interstate highway. He insisted on walking me home. When we got inside the lobby, I thanked him for dinner, said good night, and he

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kissed me on the cheek. I guess I was somewhat smitten, because when I got on the elevator, I visualized us turning off some deserted road, not being able to contain ourselves, and making passionate love in the back seat of my car. But I forgot about that hump in the middle. Damn. Now I wished I drove something big. Like a Buick. Bernadine had left a message and said it was important, so I called her. “Hey, girl,” I said, when she answered. “Hey. I’ve been meaning to call you,” she said in a tired voice. “What’s wrong, Bernie?” “Girl, John left.” “I know you’re lying.” “It’s going on two weeks now.” “And you’re just now telling me this shit?” “I was fucked up, girl.” “So why didn’t you call me? I’da caught the next plane out of here, and you know it. Damn, Bernie.” “I’m okay now. Really.” “Wait a minute. Back up. Where’d he go? And why’d he leave? Wait. Let me guess. Another woman?” “A white one.” “Get the hell out of here!” “Anyway, now that it’s sunk in, I’m glad the motherfucker’s gone, but I just didn’t want you coming here not knowing what the deal was.” “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound so hot to me.” “I was out there for a minute, but I mean it, I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll be glad when your black ass gets here, though.” “Me too. What about the kids?” “I haven’t told ’em yet. They think John’s on another one of his business trips. I’ll tell ’em. As soon as I figure out the best way. Anyway, I’ve got a lot to tell you when you get here, girl.” “I really don’t believe this shit.”

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“Believe it, girl.” “Well, guess what?” “What?” “My so-called girlfriend flaked out on me, so now this man named Lionel is helping me drive.” “The one you met at that New Year’s party?” “Yep. And we may have to spend the night at a motel, but we should be there sometime on Friday. As soon as we hit the city limits, I’ll be at your front door.” “Then I’ll leave the key under the mat. I’m taking the day off. I have to talk to my lawyer about John’s and my financial disclosure statements. She said she found some discrepancies. I don’t know what that shit means, but I’m sure it’s probably some more of his bullshit. I hope it won’t take long. I’ve got errands to run, have to pick up the kids and then stop by my mother’s.” “I still don’t believe this shit, Bernie.” “Girl, some days it’s hard for me to believe too.” “Did you tell Geneva?” “Not yet, but you know she’ll be glad to hear it.” “You’re not sitting around that house going crazy by yourself, are you?” “I was, but remember I told you I wanted you to meet Gloria and Robin?” “Yeah.” “Girl, you’d swear I was dying and they were trying to save my life. Robin took the kids this past weekend, and Gloria dragged me to see The War of the Roses because everybody had said how funny it was, but halfway through it, I walked out on that shit and went two doors down and Men Don’t Leave was playing, so I kept right on walking until I came to Steel Magnolias. It was good, girl. Anyway, they won’t let me do too much of anything by myself. But I’ve gotta go. I’ve got to read Onika Messy Bessey for the zillionth time and then help John junior with his science project, something with vinegar and baking soda. So I’ll see

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you when I see you. And don’t worry about me. You just have fun getting here.” After I hung up, I watched Yasmine jump across some crates and boxes, and all I could say was, “Damn.” I pulled in front of Lionel’s house at 5:30 A.M. Yasmine was in her travel carrier, and I stacked her on top of a suitcase on the back seat. The trunk was full. I’d bought some toys for Bernadine’s kids, which was stupid, because they took up most of the space. I had filled a thermos with Five Alive and crushed ice, bought some plastic cups, a big bag of potato chips, and a few pieces of fruit, which I put in an Igloo. His house was tiny, and there was a rusty old car hiked up on stilts—or whatever they call them—sitting in the snow-covered driveway. I didn’t see a jeep. I was looking for the doorbell but couldn’t find one, so I knocked. Lionel came to the door in a hooded black sweatsuit, and even in twilight, with a mouth full of toothpaste, he looked good. “Come on in,” he mumbled. “I’m almost ready.” I sat down on his sofa, which was really a futon. It was so low I almost broke my neck when I landed. There wasn’t what I’d call a color scheme or a “look” he was aiming for in here, but everything looked clean. Bachelors, I thought, and chuckled. There was also a musty odor that I couldn’t quite identify because the mist of some kind of air freshener still hung in the air. I looked around the room. His stereo looked just like the one I had in college. There were hundreds of cassettes stacked on top of each other. Books were opened, lying in a variety of places, and right next to me was The Art of the Deal, by Donald Trump. Two sets of weights lay in the middle of the floor in the next room, which, if it had had a table in it, would have been the dining room. Men. I shifted my weight to get more comfortable, and that’s when I saw two

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overstuffed gym bags sitting on the other side of the front door. How long was he planning to stay in Phoenix? “Are you making fun of my bachelor pad?” he said, coming from the back of the house. “No. I was trying to figure out how we’re going to get your bags in my car.” “Don’t worry. I’ll get ’em in,” he said. He put on one of those sleeveless down vests, picked up his bags, locked the front door, and went outside. He turned to face me and was grinning again. “You look like the kind of lady who’d drive a red car,” he said, and opened the passenger door. “What’s that in the cage?” he asked, while he stuffed his bags in the back seat. “That’s Yasmine, my cat. Please don’t tell me you’re allergic to cats.” “No,” he said. “I just can’t stand ’em.” We gassed up at a Chevron station, went across the street to a Circle K, bought some coffee and doughnuts, and hit Interstate 25. He insisted on driving, which was fine with me. “Don’t you drive a jeep?” I asked. “Not anymore. I sold it a few months ago.” “Oh,” I said, and decided not to ask why. The first two hundred miles were enlightening. Lionel did most of the talking. He told me he used to be in real estate and had acquired some property, but when he discovered how much money there was to be made selling fire trucks, he disposed of it and used the money to buy two trucks. Things went well for a couple of years, but then the bottom dropped out: too much competition, and fire departments weren’t replacing their trucks as fast as they used to. He said he could only sell in his region—which was shrinking. That’s why he bailed out and went into business with a buddy, who had convinced him that importing Korean and Japanese “junk,” as he called it, would be even more profitable. But over the past year, things weren’t going so hot. The

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market for junk had also become saturated, and his partner wanted out because he and his wife were opening a bed-andbreakfast near one of the ski areas. Lionel had to buy him out. It took all of the money he had on hand, and after that, most of his “backers” backed down. He tried to convince them that African art was about to become a big thing in the States, but they didn’t go for it. So now, he said, he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. “So what’s your next step?” I asked. “Pork,” he said. “Excuse me?” “Pork. There’s a lot of money in pork.” “I thought you said you were vegetarian.” “I am, but what’s that got to do with anything?” “Well, if you wouldn’t eat it, how could you sell it?” “Do you think that everybody who owns a liquor store is an alcoholic?” “Of course not.” “I know this guy who’s one of the biggest pork exporters in the country, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for months. I met him at a ranch in Cheyenne, and he told me if I ever wanted to get into pork, to give him a call.” “And?” “He hasn’t called me back. As a matter of fact—and this is so coincidental I can’t believe it—right after I got home from dinner with you, a good source told me this guy’s gonna be in Phoenix day after tomorrow. I know the hotel he’s staying at and everything.” I must have looked like a fool to him. But I didn’t know what to say. Lionel just kept right on talking, while I looked out the window at the mountains. I was thinking about my new job. Not the job itself but the opportunities that lay ahead. At my interview, I was straightforward and told them I was also interested in producing, that I didn’t want to stay in publicity forever. They assured me that their policy was to promote from within whenever possible, and since I knew

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I was good at what I did, I wasn’t worried. I had already proved myself at the gas company. I had produced quite a few public service announcements and instructional films, but I’d reached my peak as far as promotions went. I didn’t like the idea of making less money, but I knew television stations didn’t pay much unless you were in front of the camera. It just meant I was going to have to work my ass off and, in the meantime, cash in some of my bonds and CDs to cover my mortgage and take care of Mama. “Am I boring you?” I heard him ask. “No, Lionel. I’m sorry, I guess I’m just a little tired. I’m not used to getting up this early.” “I am,” he said. “I usually run about six every morning.” “So that’s how you manage to stay in such great shape, huh?” “That’s one reason,” he said, and winked at me. He pulled my ashtray out, and the smell of old ashes filled the air. “You mind if I smoke a joint?” “Not in the car. Please. I’m allergic to it,” I said, lying. “Why don’t you pull over?” “I can wait,” he said. “I’m allergic to cigarette smoke myself,” he said, and pushed the ashtray back in. “What kind of music you got in that box?” I picked up the cassette case and started going through it. He didn’t want to hear Phyllis Hyman or Simply Red or Anita Baker or Tracy Chapman or The Whispers or Stevie Wonder or Michael Jackson, and had never heard of Julia Fordham, and when I finally said Tchaikovsky, he laughed. “Here,” I said, putting the case between us. “Why don’t you pick out something you like?” “No. Keep going.” “Tell me what you want to hear.” “You got any Kenny G?” “Yes,” I said, and took it out and pushed the tape in. I turned it up loud enough so that if he said something, I wouldn’t hear his ass. Then I decided the only way to ensure

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this was to pretend like I was asleep. Which I did. Apparently I dozed off for a few minutes, because when I felt the car stop, it startled me. We were at a gas station. “How much does it take to fill up your tank?” he asked. “About fifteen dollars.” “We’re only on half, but we don’t wanna get out in the middle of nowhere and can’t find a gas station.” I handed him a twenty-dollar bill. Lionel got out and put the gas in, and as I watched him clean the front window, steam was coming out of his nostrils. He wasn’t as handsome as I’d thought he was. As a matter of fact, he looked sort of like a horse. I was wondering how many more miles we had to go, so I looked at the map. We were almost in Trinidad, which meant we still had close to eight hundred left. It took seven dollars and thirty cents to fill up the tank, but when Lionel got back in the car, he didn’t give me my change. “You want me to drive yet?” I asked. “No. You just sit back and relax.” By the time we reached New Mexico’s border, I was starving and needed a cigarette bad. We stopped in a little town called Springer, and Lionel pulled over to the side of the road, stood in what was left of the snow, and smoked his joint. I smoked my cigarette. We walked to a diner, and I ordered a tuna fish sandwich. He ordered a hamburger and fries and a strawberry milk shake. I gave him a funny look. “I still eat a hamburger every once in a while,” he said. Once we’d finished, he said he was still hungry and ordered a slice of apple pie. When we got back outside, I insisted on taking the wheel, because I didn’t know how stoned he was and didn’t want to find out. By the time we got to Santa Fe, the weather had changed dramatically. Everything was green. I wanted to stop, since I’d never been anywhere near here and I knew Santa Fe was known as a haven for artists. I’d never seen a real adobe, ei-

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ther, and was interested in buying some turquoise jewelry. But Lionel didn’t want to stop. “Why not?” I asked him. “It’s nothing but a tourist trap. They put everything on the streets so you’ll spend all your money, and they jack the prices up sky-high.” “So what?” I said. He seemed agitated. “I don’t like stopping and starting when I’m on the highway, that’s all. And besides, I thought you were in a big hurry to get to Phoenix.” “I am, and you’re right,” I said. “The sooner we get there, the better.” He sort of smiled, and I wanted to push him out of the goddamn car. It was getting dark by the time we made it to Gallup, and I was tired of driving. I ran out of things to talk about with Lionel. To break up the monotony, I suggested we spend the night at a motel. “We’re less than five hours from Phoenix. I’m not tired, and I can take over,” he said. “Lionel, we’ve been on the road for twelve hours. I could really use a shower, and I would love to brush my teeth and lie down for a while.” “I hear you,” he said. “I’ll get us separate rooms.” “Come on, Savannah. Why you wanna throw your money away like that? I don’t bite,” he said, and smiled. We drove a few more miles, and I turned off at the exit when I saw a Great Western. I got two rooms anyway. Poor Yasmine—I had almost forgotten about her—but then again, I’d drugged the cat so she could tolerate being caged. I brought her in the room and got a few toiletries and a change of clothes out of the trunk. Lionel didn’t take anything up to his room. He was pouting. When I opened the door, I sat Yasmine down on the floor. She was awake now, so I let her out and gave her some food I’d put in a Baggie. I had barely sat down, when Lionel

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knocked on the door. I opened it. “I’m sorry if I was a pain in the ass,” he said. “You weren’t a pain, Lionel. I think we’re both just tired.” “I’m not all that tired,” he said, and smiled at me. For some reason, now he looked as tempting as he did on New Year’s Eve. “Don’t you need somebody to keep you warm?” he asked. “I brought my pajamas.” “I think I feel better than pajamas,” he said. I thought for a minute. Part of my fantasy was to get myself a little piece out here on the road. And hell, I hadn’t had any in five months, and even though Lionel had gotten on my nerves, maybe he communicated better in bed. I didn’t have to be in love with the man to do this, and my poor body’d probably be grateful to get fed, since it’d been on such a starvation diet. I can block his bullshit out of my mind, because I’ve done it before. I should go ahead and get me some. If I’m lucky, I may never see this man again after tomorrow. “Come on in,” I said, and turned on the television. “I need to take a shower. I feel yucky.” “Take your time,” he said. So I took one. When I came out, he was lying on the bed, butt naked. Hair was everywhere, but it couldn’t hide the beauty of this man’s body. I wanted to say, “Damn, Lionel,” but instead I dropped the towel I had draped around me to the floor. If this was going to be a fantasy, I wanted to start it on the right note. “You want to take one too, don’t you?” I said, as he looked up at me. I swear I wished I had big luscious breasts, because when he got up and walked toward me, he kissed them, and his entire lips covered one. I felt my body heat up, just that quick. “I’ll be right out,” he said. I fell on the bed and, through the open door, looked at his steamy silhouette in the mirror, feeling my body’s growing

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excitement. Thank God I didn’t pack away my diaphragm, I thought. When the water in the shower stopped, he came out and went over to the sink and picked up my toothbrush. Was he crazy? I was about to say something, but I swear, I couldn’t. I just watched him squeeze the little tube of toothpaste and then commence to brushing. By the time he finished, I had dried up. I was trying to force myself to feel lustful again, because I wanted to do this, I needed to do this, but when he put his pants back on and then his jacket and said he’d be right back, it was all over for me. I didn’t even have to ask where he was going. I could smell the reefer on his breath when he came back. He took his jacket and pants off and threw them on a chair, then came over to the bed and got on top of me. His hands were ice cold, but he was kissing me so hard I couldn’t say anything. The next thing I knew, I felt this big thick stick trying to force its way inside me, but I couldn’t help him out. As a matter of fact, the shit hurt. “Lionel, did you bring a condom?” “I’ve got it on,” he said. I felt down there just to make sure. When did he put the shit on? I wondered. “Well, you can slow down. We’ve got all night.” “I’m just excited. I’ve been thinking about what I’d do to you ever since New Year’s, and I guess I’m just a little anxious, but I’ll slow down, baby.” I might as well have been talking to myself, because when he pulled away, I thought he was going to take it from the top, but instead he put his face between my legs and started licking and chewing like a wild animal. I guess he thought I was aroused because of the way I was grabbing onto the headboard, and all the twisting and wiggling I was doing, but I was scared he was going to bite my clitoris off—if and when he found it. I wanted to get this shit over with before I was raw, so I took my hands and put them firmly on his head and pushed it away. Then I moaned. I

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gripped him by the shoulders, pulled him up on top of me, and, in an exasperated voice, yelled, “Please, put it in!” “I’m on my way, baby,” he said, and jabbed me worse than he had the first time. I held my breath until I felt him sink into a soft, warm place. He went to work, and during this whole ordeal, not once did he kiss me. When I finally looked up at his face, he was gazing at something on the wall with unbelievable intensity, and all of a sudden his face became monstrous and contorted, and the next thing I know, he started growling like a bear. Really, fucking growling. “Grrrrrrrrrrr,” he said, and when I looked at him, he was gritting his teeth and his eyes looked like red lasers. “Grrrrrrrrrrr,” he said again, and I thought his penis was going to come out through my chest. I was about to push him off, but I was scared, and he did it again, even louder and more piercing this time. “Grrrrrrrrrrr,” he screeched, and then, thank God, collapsed. I lay there as still as I possibly could, because I was terrified. I didn’t know what I was sleeping with: a man or a beast. Shit. I could’ve handled this highway by myself and done without this detour of the goddamn zoo. Lionel rolled over and sighed. I was dripping with his sweat, but my forehead and armpits were dry. “That was good,” he said. “And I want some more before the night is over.” I thought I would gag. “That felt like it might last me awhile,” I said. “No no no no no,” he said, grinning triumphantly, and turned toward me to kiss my shoulder. “It gets better.” When I heard him snoring, I thought about putting my clothes on, grabbing Yasmine, running out of this damn room, and leaving his black ass right here. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t. So I dragged the phone into the bathroom, closed the door, and called Sheila and cussed her ass out. “Thanks a lot for introducing me to this asshole,” I said, after I told her what had happened. She apologized between outbursts of laughter. I started cracking up too. She wanted

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to tell me all about their new van, but I was tired and told her to tell me another time. I got back in bed. I was not going through this shit again and wanted to be up and ready to leave before he opened his eyes. Luckily, God was on my side, because I had already showered and dressed and was taking two Advils when he sat up in bed the next morning. “Savannah?” “Good morning,” I said. “What you doing?” “I’m getting ready to go downstairs to the coffee shop to get us something to eat.” “Don’t they have room service here?” he asked. “I don’t know, but I need to take Yasmine out for some air anyway. By the time you shower and get dressed, I’ll be back.” Before he had a chance to respond, I was already out the door. I drove. When we got to Flagstaff, I called Bernie. She wasn’t home. I left a message: “You will not even be meeting Lionel, girl. He is one weird motherfucker. An impostor from the word go. I’m taking his ass to a motel. There’s no way I’m spending another night with this reptile. See you later.” I was also glad I didn’t have to start working for almost two weeks. Lord knows, I’d need to chill out after this ordeal. When we passed the sign that said Sedona was however many miles, Lionel said, “You wanna check it out?” “No,” I said. “Why not?” “It’s a detour, Lionel, and second of all, my girlfriend’s waiting for me.” “Girlfriend?” “Yeah, didn’t I tell you I was staying with a girlfriend when I got here?” “No, you didn’t.” “Well, that’s the plan. I’ll put you up in a motel for

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tonight, and we can check to see how much it costs to fly you back tomorrow, just like I promised.” “I was hoping to spend some more time with you, Savannah. I’m enjoying your company. Immensely.” “Well, I’ve been enjoying yours too, Lionel, but I start my new job in three days, and I’ve gotta find a place to live.” “I didn’t know you were starting work so soon.” “Yep.” “Well, look,” he said, appearing rather worried. “What line of work is your girlfriend in?” “Why?” “I’m just curious.” “She’s a controller for a real estate management company.” “What about her husband?” “She doesn’t really have a husband. They’re going through a divorce. But he owns a software company.” His eyes lit up. “You mean as in computer software?” “Yes,” I said. “Look, when we get to Phoenix, do you think you could introduce me to him? I’d like to ask him a few things about how you go about getting into the software business. I know a lot about computers myself, and I’ve always wanted to throw my ideas back and forth with somebody who knows the ins and outs of the business.” “Didn’t you hear what I just said?” “Yeah, but just because they’re going through a divorce doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him.” “Look, Lionel. It would be kind of tacky for me to deal with him under the circumstances, circumstances that I don’t fully understand myself.” “Can I stay with you?” he asked. I just looked at him like he was crazy. “So it’s like that,” he said.

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“I’ll drop you off when we see a motel that looks like it’s in the middle of town.” “Drop me off?” “Yeah.” “Don’t you want to spend a little more time together?” he asked. “I would love to, but I’m tired and I’ve got a million things to do in the next few days. We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” “I hope so,” he said. When we got inside the city limits, we stopped at a gas station and asked for directions to central Phoenix. We drove until we came to Camelback near Twenty-fourth Street, which was lined with one beautiful hotel after another. I kept driving. “Where you going?” Lionel asked. “There should be a travel agency around here somewhere,” I said. “Why are you looking for a travel agency now?” he asked. “To get your airline ticket, Lionel.” “But we just got here. I wanted to at least check the city out.” “What’s to stop you?” “Well, it seems like you’re in a big hurry to get rid of me or something.” “That’s not true. I’m tired, Lionel, and I’ve got a lot of business I have to take care of.” “Well, I’m a little tired of Denver myself, and from what I can see already, Phoenix doesn’t look too bad.” I couldn’t even twist my mouth to respond, so when I saw a travel agency, I turned in. We got out of the car, and I left the windows down so Yasmine could breathe. It was actually pretty warm here. Hallelujah. We walked inside, and an agent was able to help us right away. I asked her how much a one-way ticket to Denver would cost. Leaving tomorrow.

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When she told me two hundred and nine dollars, I felt like screaming. “Shall I book that for you both, ma’am?” Lionel bent down and said, “Can I talk to you over here for a minute?” I excused myself, and we walked over by the door. “Look. Could we do this? I really don’t wanna miss this pork guy, but he won’t be here for another two days. Could you just let me have the plane fare, and I’ll hang out at a cheap motel for a couple of days and take the bus home?” “Are you serious?” “I’m serious.” “Don’t you have any money?” “I’ve got about sixty dollars in cash on me.” “Haven’t you got a credit card?” “Not anymore. I got rid of ’em. Look, Savannah, things have been tough for me for a while. And I’m trying to see if I can get something going in the pork business. If you could introduce me to your friends, or if I can catch up with this pork guy, my luck might change.” I wanted to vomit, but instead I told the reservationist that we wouldn’t be needing her services after all. I got behind the wheel and looked for the closest bank that took my ATM card. I withdrew two hundred dollars, handed the money to him in silence, then drove until I spotted a cheap motel, where I politely dropped his ass off. When he asked me for Bernadine’s phone number, I made one up. “Can I at least get a kiss?” he asked. I took a deep breath, rolled my window halfway down, and let him kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll call you tonight,” he said. “You do that,” I said, and put the car in first gear and sped off.

Discovery

B

ernadine was steaming. She’d just left her lawyer’s office and was on her way to the bank. She was trying to maintain her composure. “You lying, sneaky, conniving bastard!” she yelled, and bit down on her cigarette. She replayed what Jane Milhouse had told her: According to John’s financial disclosure statement, his annual income was eighty thousand dollars—nowhere near the four hundred thousand Bernadine had estimated it to be. “He’s lying through his teeth,” she had said. “How in the hell did he come up with that figure?” “Well, it appears that John sold his half of the partnership late last year and is now a salaried employee.” “He’s what?” “That’s what it say